


The Monster in the Mirror

by squirenonny



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (Someone save him), Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Autistic Keith (Voltron), Depression, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Kuron is trying, M/M, PTSD, Pining Matt, Season 3 Spoilers, Team as Family, Written for Shatt Week 2017, aka The Shatt Week Fic where Kuron stole the show and kinda turned the bulk of the story gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-14 15:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11785851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirenonny/pseuds/squirenonny
Summary: Keith pulls Shiro from a dying Galra ship. He's injured, severely dehydrated, and barely conscious--but he's alive, and Keith has to believe that's enough. But as Team Voltron struggles to piece itself back together, Shiro begins to wonder whether something in him has broken beyond repair.Light-years away, Matt Holt pulls Shiro out of a pod in a Galra laboratory. All Shiro remembers about his captivity is the phrase "Operation Kuron" and a face identical to his own staring back at him through the open door. Now Shiro and Matt have to track down Team Voltron before Haggar's machinations tear them apart.





	1. Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Shatt Week, inspired by Season 3. Prompts can be found [here](https://shatt-week.tumblr.com/post/162989434885/shatt-week-prompts), and I managed to incorporate all of them into their respective chapters (though I moved the free day to after Day "6" for pacing sake) because the combination of Shatt and Season 3 left me with no chill.
> 
> Spoilers, obviously. Also, general warning for panic attacks and minor dissociation/unreality of the existential crisis variety, because clones.

“Operation Kuron.”

Matt Holt raised his head, glancing from Commander Ellent to the dozen other rebels gathered around the table. They’d all been called here half a varga ago, then made to wait as the higher-ups discussed something in private, so Matt had taken the opportunity to remove his knee brace and fiddle with it. The Sollens people had remarkable tech, but it had never been adapted for a human body before, and it still didn’t quite move the way he needed it to.

But now Ellent was here, so he had to pay attention. She was tall for a Sollens, nearly the size of the Galra sentries that had guarded the prison where Matt had been held for nearly a year. Her thick fur looked almost pink in this light, and her large ears quivered as she scanned the room. She seemed impatient, as though the rest of them were at fault for the delay. This had, after all, been an emergency call—all officers needed, even Matt, who only qualified as an officer on a technicality. Engineering, evidently, was a rare talent at the fringes of the Galra Empire.

That was why they’d come for him. A nascent rebellion shattering the defenses of a forgotten prison world to rescue a human engineer with a bad leg and subpar eyesight. Oh, they’d tossed him in a healing chamber that had mitigated the damage. He could see the room around him well enough to distinguish one ally from the next, though he couldn’t make out writing or other fine details. Not that he could have made heads or tails of the Sollensi language even with his contacts. And he was walking better now, too. With the knee brace it didn’t even hurt, unless he was up and about for hours at a time.

But they couldn’t fix everything.

Story of his life, really. They’d put him to work on their ships, first. Right into the deep end, with a linguistics unit that only approximated the Sollensi-English translation and a hangar full of ships he didn’t know the first thing about. A few weeks with schematics and some hands-on experimentation had filled in the biggest holes in his understanding, and the rebels once more had a fleet that wasn’t liable to explode on liftoff.

Matt’s success with the ships had earned him a promotion from ‘probationary spaceship mechanic’ to Chief Engineer. He had a half dozen rebels on his staff, none of whom had any formal training, and a list a mile long of things on the _Arva V_ that needed his attention.

Honestly, he would have rather been doing any one of them instead of sitting here listening to Ellent outline a Galra operation that had nothing to do with him.

“We intercepted a transmission late last night,” Ellent said, tapping the screen in front of her. A holographic projection appeared in the center of the room. To Matt’s eyes, it was little more than a faint blue fuzz, but the rebels around him snapped to attention at once, their discontented grumbles cutting off. “They’ve completed stage two.”

“Do we still not know what that means?” Vara asked, drumming his long, spider-like fingers on the table. “Because last I checked, we still didn’t know what it means.”

Ellent’s lips thinned out as she struggled for calm. “The classified files for Operation Kuron are proving difficult to crack,” she said carefully. “So, no, we don’t know the details of what they’re doing. But we know the witch is pouring a massive amount of Empire resources into this project, and we know that everything we’ve intercepted about it points to it being crucial to their strategy moving forward. I don’t know how long they’ve been working on this thing already, but they just took another major step forward. We _have_ to stop it—now. We can’t wait for them to make their move.”

Vara raised all four of his hands in surrender, then slumped back in his chair. “I’m just saying, it’s going to be hard to plan to sabotage something when we don’t know the first thing about it.”

“That’s why I’ve brought you all here.” Ellent tapped her screen again, and the fuzzy light changed. Matt sighed, leaning his cheek on his hand, and wondered how much longer they were going to keep him here or if—for once in their lives—they would remember that he couldn’t see the damn holoscreen. “We know the current location of the ship that houses Operation Kuron. We’ve made enough runs on Galra bases that we can get a small team on board without immediately tripping the security protocols. We’re here to decide who to send.”

Silence descended over the room, and Matt glanced around. The members of this rebellion came from all over. Sollens made up the largest portion of this particular ship’s crew, but there were a fair number of Tando and Yiluvians, along with refugees and freed prisoners, like Matt, who had ended up here by chance. Few of these had managed to attain as high a rank as he had, but that spoke more to his unusual circumstances than to their skill or trustworthiness.

Matt didn’t know these rebels well. He’d been here for, as near as he could tell, four months—long enough that he knew the names of all but the newest crew members, but little else. He spent most of his time with his team down in engineering, and his evenings were taken up with personal projects: Fiddling with comms in the hope of building something secure enough that Ellent would let him try to contact Earth. Digging through the scattered Galra records the rebels had stolen in search of a clue to his father’s whereabouts.

The projects weren’t going anywhere fast, but it gave him something to do to keep from drowning in the knowledge that he was a billion lightyears from home, alone and vulnerable on an alien ship on the run from an evil empire that spanned galaxies.

“Matthew.”

Matt’s head snapped up, his thoughts grinding to a halt as every eye in the room turned his way. He scrambled back through the conversation he’d only halfway been listening to, searching for something that might tell him why they were all staring at him like that. “Uhh… what?”

Vara cradled his head in two of his hands, and Ellent hummed in something that might have been amusement. “Your consent, Matthew,” she said. “Will you accept this mission?”

“M-mission?” Matt’s hands dropped below the table, gripping his knee brace so tightly his fingers began to ache. “You mean the one where we’re going in blind and hoping to take down Haggar’s pet project by pure luck.”

Someone laughed; Matt thought it might be Jevi—she wouldn’t be going on this mission. _She_ never had to leave the ship.

“The mostly likely possibility here is that we’re dealing with some kind of weapon, or a surveillance system with a much longer range than anything we’ve yet seen,” Ellent said levelly. “We need an engineer on this team, and you’re the best one we’ve got.”

“I’m the _only_ one you’ve got,” Matt grumbled. He clutched his brace still tighter, trying to slow his racing pulse. The rebels liked to keep him out of the line of fire, if only so they didn’t risk losing the one person who knew how to keep this flying circus in the air. But it wasn’t like they’d _never_ sent him out on missions before. He was too valuable a resource, and too many of their targets needed some degree of technical know-how.

Squinting at the hologram hovering over the table, Matt tried to come up with some reason he shouldn’t go on this mission—but there was nothing. It did seem like it would deal a major blow to the Empire’s plans, and it was likely that the team Ellent sent in was going to need someone who could dismantle a weapon, hotwire an engine, or simply improvise explosives strong enough to blow a hole in whatever hid behind the veil of Operation Kuron.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, slumping back in his chair. “Fine.”

* * *

Matt regretted this already.

“You’d think a year of this would be enough for me,” he muttered. Vara—team leader for this run, despite his loud and numerous protests as to the viability of Ellent’s plan—shot him a look Matt could only assume was stern disapproval. It was hard to be sure of these things when you couldn’t see detail more than two feet in front of your face.

“Focus,” Vara muttered. Matt checked the toolkit strapped to his back, hefted his staff (solid metal and almost heavier than Matt could manage), and nodded. Vara tapped the side of his helmet to seal his facemask, and the rest of the team followed suit. “We’re in position.”

Ellent breathed deeply, the sound echoing in Matt’s ears. “Understood. Begin the infiltration.”

Vara moved first, opening a hatch in the underbelly of the shuttle they’d taken to reach the Galra research vessel and dropping out into open space. The shuttle was cloaked, preventing the Galra’s scanners from detecting it, but they couldn’t risk getting too close to the hull. Six small lifeforms might not trip the proximity alert, but the shuttle almost certainly would.

So they were going off-tether to reach the Galra ship, where Vara would cut them an opening that (hopefully) would go unnoticed for the half-varga they were giving themselves to gather information, sabotage Operation Kuron, and clear out.

Half a varga.

Matt could keep it together for half a varga.

He was the third one to reach the ship, gripping the hull clumsily with the magnetic anchors in his boots as Vara got to work. He knew he’d be fine once he got in—he was always fine once he got in. There was always too much going on to worry about hypotheticals, and Matt had learned to shut off the part of his brain that registered danger. Get in, do the job, get out. _Then_ he could panic.

And he would panic. He knew he would panic; he always did. Once he was back safe on the _Arva V_ , he’d spend a few vargas burning off his nervous energy with a go on the training deck or another anxiety-fueled marathon session with his comms modifications. Then he’d pass out for twelve-to-fourteen vargas and try to get back to life as usual.

It was worse leading up to the mission. Right now, he still had the illusion of an out. He could turn around and head back to the shuttle. No one would stop him. That was Ellent’s one rule—no one did something against their will. They didn’t always have the means to take freed prisoners home, but they would give you (or at least steal you) a shuttle if you wanted to make your own way, or they would give you a refuge on their ships if you recognized that leaving was suicide.

The second Matt said that all this was too much for him, they would let him go. It had happened on his first mission, when he was supposed to help steal a new engine core the Galra were developing. It could have given the rebels a much-needed leg up, but Matt had panicked, Ellent had brought him back to the main ship, and the rest of the team had carried on without him.

They’d ended up having to destroy the core. Better that neither side had access to that technology than leave it in Galra hands.

Matt still felt terrible about that, and so he’d made every effort to see missions through once he’d accepted them. He sometimes said no up front, but he’d vowed not to pull the rug out from under them again. So he wouldn’t. Even if he was sweating bad enough to fog up his helmet.

It wasn’t like he could see, anyway.

“I’m in,” Vara hissed. He tugged on the section of hull he’d cut through, sending it spiraling out into open space. The ship’s artificial atmosphere shimmered as it sealed the breach, and Matt prayed the rebels’ standard precautions had caught the breach alert. It had never failed before--but then again, humans had never encountered intelligent life before Kerberos. Matt refused to trust his fate to precedence these days.

Then they were inside, the drop to the floor jarring Matt’s injured knee. He breathed through the dull ache, releasing his terror on the exhale. He was here now. Time to focus on survival.

Matt fell in at the middle of the pack, where he was the best protected. If there was one thing to be said about being an injured engineer from a comparatively frail species, it was that the other rebels all moved without provocation to protect him. Matt might have felt guilty about that if not for the fact that he was, objectively, the worst fighter on this team. Also the worst shot, due in part to his terrible vision. Everyone else carried a blaster in addition to a sword or knife, but Ellent didn’t trust Matt with either a laser or a blade.

He stayed alert, though, listening as much as watching for signs of guards. Vara, Kreft, and Ulvorian took the lead, sneaking up on what guards they couldn’t avoid outright and slitting their throats. Megra and Erada brought up the rear, guns at the ready.

Their progress was swift, and Matt only tripped over a dead soldier’s weapon once—a new personal best.

The deeper they went into the ship, the more Matt felt the weight of all that metal pressing down on him. It was almost like being back in his cell, fixing Galra tech so they didn’t send him down to the mines where his frail Earth-grown immune system and bad leg were liable to get him killed. Every day he forgot a little more what it was like to stand beneath an open sky and breathe in the scent of rain and fresh-cut grass.

 _You’re free,_ Matt reminded himself. _You’re free and you're never going back._

But the way the footsteps echoed off the metal walls, the chill in the air he could feel through his armor—it all dragged him back to his captivity. He ran faster, trying to outpace his past, and drowned out his thoughts with the wheezing sound of his own breath until Vara pulled up short outside a door just like every other they’d passed today.

“Control room,” he said. “Kreft, Erada, you’re up.”

Matt knew the rest of his team only distantly, and the suits and masks they wore didn’t help with recognition, but all the rebels talked about Erada being the best shot they had, and Kreft had been the first one picked for this team—probably for his skill with a blade. He’d taken out more guards than Vara and Ulvorian combined.

Kreft and Erada stepped up to the control room door, assumed a ready stance, then nodded to Vara. The second the door opened, Kreft darted inside, breaking right as Erada lifted her gun and took out the three guards in Matt’s line of sight with three perfect shots. There was a cry from out of sight, then twin thumps, and Kreft called out an all-clear.

“Megra,” Vara barked. “Computers.”

Megra was already moving. Matt vaguely remembered Jevi mentioning their data-mining skills when she’d recommended them for the mission, but Matt had never worked with them before. Watching them now, he had to admit they lived up to their reputation. Text flew across the screens far faster than Matt would have been able to read, even if it had been in English and he’d had his glasses. Two more windows popped up—one text, one security footage. It was grainy, and Vara shouldered Matt out of the way as he pressed in closer for a look, but Matt was pretty sure it showed--

“Prisoner.” Megra swore under their breath. “It’s not a weapon at all.”

“Not the mechanical kind,” Vara said. He swore. “Pull whatever records they have on this prisoner. Ellent will want to review them. Kreft, Ulvorian, Matthew, stay with her. Erada, you’re with me. Let’s go bust this guy out.”

Megra spun as the pair headed for the door. “Wait. Sir, he’s...” Megra paused, and Matt swore they looked right at him before going on. “He’s human.”

“ _What?_ ” Matt breathed. For a second, the panic returned, clawing at his throat, strangling his thoughts. He lunged toward the security footage on the screen, squinting, but he couldn’t make out the face of the figure floating in the glass cylinder. He couldn’t say for certain that it was anyone he knew and not just some other poor soul who’d gotten caught up in this war. But it could have been his father. It could have been--

“You’ll want Matthew there,” Megra was saying. “He knows better than any of us how to gauge a human’s physical condition. If this man is beyond saving...”

“I’ll go,” Matt said, turning, before Vara could contradict Megra’s suggestion. “They’re right. I can help.”

Vara hesitated, a growl rumbling in his chest. Then he nodded. “Keep up, and be ready to fight.”

Heart pounding, Matt followed him out of the room and down the hall, where a locked door stopped them. Vara tried the standard security override the rebels had stolen, which opened most doors. When that didn’t work, he tried their override—more risky to use, as it left a trail for the Galra to follow, possibly giving away patterns in their attacks.

The lock burned a steady red, and Matt clenched his teeth.

“Move,” he said, taking Vara’s place at the control panel. He wrenched the cover off and dug through the wires within, leaning in so close his faceplate brushed the warped metal edge where the cover had broken. He traced the circuit, trying to pick out the switch that would open the door. Holding his breath, he stripped two wires and touched them together.

The door retracted without a sound.

Erada clapped Matt on the shoulder, and the three of them hurried into the high security ward. At once, Matt noticed the scorch marks on the walls and the dark flecks that looked suspiciously like blood. Two guards waited within, but Vara and Erada took them out in a single shot each. Matt's pulse sped up, and he huddled close to Vara as they made their way deeper, past an empty operating theater. One glance at that room, with the wicked-looking implements dangling from robotic arms over the table, was enough to chill Matt through, and he clutched his staff to his chest.

He’d been spared the worst of the Galra cruelty, but you didn’t spend a week in a Galra prison without hearing stories of what the druids did to their special projects. If this _was_ his dad in here—if it was Shiro--

Matt’s lungs stalled, and Erada had to grab his arm to keep him from collapsing. He’d never completely forgotten the smell of the Arena. The blood and excrement of a hundred different species caked on the floor and festering in the vents. He still bore the scar from his time there—a mercy, compared to the fate Shiro had taken on himself. Matt thought he’d set aside these empty hopes months ago, but now that he was here, he found himself hoping again. Hoping for the impossible.

They said only the monsters survived in the Arena, and Shiro was no monster.

There were only two cells in this prison, set on opposite sides of the dark, narrow corridor. They were identical in every way—the guards at the door, quickly dispatched; the computer bay along one wall, whirring softly; the scanners Galra used to monitor vital signs in the center. And just behind the scanners, a pod. The pod in the room to the right was empty, a hollow shell gleaming in the idle light of the monitors.

The pod in the room to the left was full of a thick, slightly opaque blue liquid. Suspended within, eyes closed, a streak of white through his dark hair, was Shiro. He was still dressed in the thin prison jumpsuit with the ragged shirt over top, but that wasn’t enough to cover the stark metal lines of the prosthetic that had replaced Shiro’s right arm. Chest constricting, Matt’s eyes went to the panel in front of the glass cylinder, staring for a long moment at the line pulsing a familiar rhythm in time with Shiro’s heart, at the indecipherable characters that measured everything else.

“You’re alive?” he whispered.

Erada gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, but Vara was already at the console, scanning the screen until he found a button that drained the liquid out of the pod. Shiro dropped to the ground as the fluid drained, but his legs didn't take his weight. Matt wasn't honestly sure he was even conscious as he slumped against the glass front of the pod.

A moment later, the glass slid aside, and Matt hurried forward to catch Shiro as he fell.

* * *

This was a trick.

Somehow, some way, this was a trick. Prince Lotor was waiting just out of sight, ready to pounce the second the paladins let their guards down. There was a bomb waiting inside the lone Galra fighter drifting just in front of Black’s face, and the second Keith tried to open it up, he and Black were both as good as dead. It was—it was—

It was _Shiro_ , and no matter how many times Hunk told him to be careful, Keith _could not_ hold himself back.

The others were all in their lions, waiting in their bays in case they needed to provide backup. Keith was broadcasting his view through the Black Lion’s eyes to all of them, but what they were seeing didn’t really matter. It was what Black _felt_ that had Keith’s heart in his throat.

_Shiro._

“I’m going in.”

“Keith,” Lance said. “Are you sure--”

“ _I’m going in_.”

Keith hardly had to urge the Black Lion forward. She moved with a startling amount of grace, considering her size, and gingerly caught Shiro’s ship in her jaws. Keith unstrapped himself and skidded down the ramp, pausing with his hands on the hatch of the fighter. Shiro was inside. Shiro _had_ to be inside. Keith didn’t know how he’d made it here, what had happened since he vanished from Black’s cockpit, but the questions that had kept him up at night for the last several weeks suddenly seemed so much less important.

Summoning Shiro’s bayard, Keith sliced through the locks holding the hatch in place and pried it off, letting it tumble down the ramp and out Black’s mouth. The ring of metal on metal hung in the air for a long moment, the only tangible proof that time had not frozen in its tracks.

“Shiro,” Keith whispered. It _was_ him—pale, painfully thin, with long, dirty hair and dark circles beneath his eyes, but it _was_ him. “Shit—guys, I’m gonna need help. He… he needs a pod, and I don’t think I can get him out of here on my own.”

There was a flurry of conversation on the comms, and Keith nearly fell out of Black’s mouth as she turned and shot off toward the castle, but he didn’t care about any of that. Shiro’s eyes had cracked open as soon as Keith spoke, and Keith watched breathlessly as unfocused eyes found his.

“...Keith?”

Keith yanked off his helmet, putting an end to the discussion in his ears, and scrambled up to where Shiro sat, straining to push himself up on shaking arms.

“I’m here, Shiro.” Keith’s voice broke on Shiro’s name, and he reached out to grab his wrists. His pulse was racing, fluttering against Keith’s fingertips like the heartbeat of a songbird—light and quick, like it was trying to escape him. “I’m here. Just hold on, the others are on their way. You’re gonna be okay.”

Shiro stilled, and for an instant Keith thought he’d passed out. Then Shiro drew in a shallow, shuddering breath. A sound like a sob tore out of Shiro’s throat, and he clutched at the chair, at Keith, at his restraints, his hands moving with jerky, uncoordinated motions.

“Keith,” he said. “Keith, no. No, don’t let them take you. Don’t--”

Keith’s throat constricted, and he shouted over his shoulder for the others to hurry. He could hear them, feet thundering against the hangar floor, but he didn’t dare leave Shiro’s side, not even for an instant. “It’s okay, Shiro,” he said, his vision blurring. “You’re safe. You’re back on the Castle of Lions. The Galra aren’t here. It’s okay.”

Suddenly the others were there. Hunk and Allura lifted Shiro between them with the utmost care, maneuvering him out of the fighter and down the ramp, where they disappeared, Allura calling out symptoms to Coran—elevated heart rate, difficulty breathing, a wound on his leg radiating heat…

They passed out of Keith’s range of hearing before Allura finished her report, and Keith sank to the floor, twining trembling fingers through his hair. Pidge sat down beside him, her arms encircling his waist and squeezing tight. A moment later, Lance sat down on Keith’s other side, their shoulders just touching.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Lance said, offering a smile. “You’ll see.”

Keith prayed Lance was right.


	2. Autophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autophobia: the fear of oneself, or of being alone

Shiro’s head was pounding.

He became aware of the room around him slowly: the bed beneath him, softer than anything he’d felt in… how long? The pillow beneath his head and the thin blanket draped over his body. The room was dim, a single strip of illumination running around the baseboards. It reminded him of--

_The pod. A glass window in front of his nose, tinted dark enough to steep the inside of the pod in perpetual twilight. A needle pricking his arm. He looked down at his feet as his head began to spin and saw something thick, like oil or syrup, rising through spouts in the floor. It clung to his feet, swirling like a living thing, a creature come to drag him down to the depths._

Shiro sat upright in bed, heart pounding, and clung to the blankets now pooling in his lap. He needed a light, needed to see that he was out, that he was free, that he could leave. But the panic had its claws in him, and he couldn’t seem to make himself move. His hair, so much longer than it had been the last time his mind had been clear, fell across his face. Its touch felt like fingers trailing across his cheeks in a cold imitation of a caress.

Something shifted in the darkness, a shadow that brought to mind guards and druids and pain. Shiro lifted his right arm, slowly, fighting against the machinery that sat as frozen as the rest of him, and tried to call up the will to fight.

“Shiro?”

The call was so soft, Shiro thought for sure he’d imagined it, for he was a prisoner of the Galra Empire, and that was Keith, and Keith should not— _could not—_ be here.

The shadows shifted again, and Shiro tensed. But then the lights came up, stinging eyes that had seen nothing but the low red lights of a Galra fighter’s cockit for a full week. Shiro flinched away from the light, his eyes streaming, and it dimmed again—not to the same pitch black it had been at first, but low enough that Shiro could see the room around him with a minimum of squinting.

He recognized this place at once. The Castle of Lions. His paladin’s quarters. He wore a white medsuit, and his long, unruly hair had been washed, though he could still feel where it had matted against the back of his neck during the long, lonely chase after Voltron.

Keith stood by the door, his eyes wide, his hand lingering on the light controls.

“How--” Shiro faltered, his throat sore and swollen. Four days without water, he supposed, would do that. It had been a herculean task to record his brief pilot log entries near the end. The cyropod—they must have put him in one, for the wound in his leg no longer felt like a live coal buried beneath his skin—must not have been able to soothe all of the effects of dehydration.

Or maybe it was just that he hadn’t spoken more than fifty words together since he’d left the rebels at their outpost.

“How long?” he finally managed. He wasn’t sure if he was asking how long he’d been asleep or how long he’d been gone before that, and he didn’t think he’d have been able to form the words anyway.

“The Black Lion found you two days ago. Before that...” Keith paused, his eyes dropping to the floor. “A month. You were gone a month.”

Shiro breathed out a sharp breath. A month. That made a little over three weeks unaccounted for, except by the hazy memories of fluid-filled chambers and Galra faces looming over him. _What did they do to me?_

The mattress shifted, and Shiro looked up to find Keith sitting beside him. He was close enough to touch, but he kept his hands at his sides, his gaze boring a hole in the floor between them. “Are you… okay?”

A laugh tried to escape Shiro, but it came out strangled, and it sounded more like a sob than anything. _Okay?_ he wanted to ask. _Recaptured by the Galra, held for three weeks, experimented on, my memory wiped, and then a week with no food, dwindling water and oxygen reserves, and no one to talk to except myself. And you want to know if I’m okay?_

It was a dark thought, bitter-tasting in a way he’d grown used to over the last months. Usually he could keep it at bay, but here in the dark, quiet room, a scraggly beard and matted hair making his head itch, with only Keith here to be strong for, he couldn’t seem to push the bitterness away.

“Fine,” he said.

Keith placed a hand on his shoulder, and Shiro forced himself to meet Keith’s eyes. Shiro smiled, and some of Keith’s tension drained out of him, reminding Shiro acutely that Keith was still young, still scared, and that he needed Shiro to be strong for him.

Forcing a smile he hoped didn’t look as hollow as it felt, Shiro reached out and pulled Keith into a hug. Keith resisted for a fleeting moment, then fell against Shiro, his breath turning ragged.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Keith whispered. “I thought you were dead.”

Shiro’s smile turned sad as he watched the shadows play across the wall behind Keith and tried to make himself feel anything more than a low-grade headache. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

* * *

Shiro’s sleep was crowed with dreams he’d forgotten even before he woke up. They left behind a residue, a thin veneer over his half-conscious mind that told him he was missing something. Something important. He felt like he ought to try to remember, but he recoiled from the blank patches that hung like shrouds over dark, barbed memories.

He breathed out, grounding himself in the rough texture of the blanket under his hand.

 _What happened?_ He remembered fighting Zarkon, taking back his bayard. A flash of pain, and then… darkness. He must have blacked out. He wasn’t lying on the cold, hard floor of a prison cell, though, and he wasn’t dead. That must mean his team had won. They’d brought him back to the castle, healed whatever wounds he’d sustained, then carried him back to his room to rest.

He should let them know he was okay.

“Takashi? Are you awake?”

Shiro froze, a river of ice rushing through his core as he heard a voice he’d thought he’d never hear again. He opened his eyes to a dull gray ceiling not at all like his room on the castle-ship, and unasked questions about how long he’d been out if Pidge had found her brother without him died on his tongue.

“Where am I?” Even as he asked the question, Shiro sat up, pushing back the blanket and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Matt stood by the door, dressed in the same enveloping outfit as the rebels they’d seen on the security footage Pidge had pulled from Beta Traz. His hair was longer and thinner than Shiro remembered, hanging limp to his shoulders, and he squinted, his eyes searching Shiro.

“A rebel ship called the _Arva V_.” Matt paused, catching his lip between his teeth. Shiro wouldn’t have named that as something he remembered Matt doing, but the sight hit him with a powerful wave of emotion and he had to stop halfway though his efforts to stand as his knees suddenly went weak.

For a moment all he could do was breathe, tears burning at the back of his throat, the room around him trying to burst apart into little particles of light like the hallucination this must be. “Matt?” he finally asked. “Is that really you?”

He did manage to stand this time, heart pounding at Matt gave a laugh that sounded just as disbelieving as Shiro felt. Before Shiro had found his balance, Matt crashed into him with an embrace that knocked them both backward onto the bed, Matt atop Shiro and laughing into his chest.

“Goddamnit, Takashi,” he said, hands clutching at the sleeves of Shiro’s prison uniform. “I thought—I was afraid you—”

“You made it out,” Shiro said. He held onto Matt with his left arm, keeping the Galra prosthetic far away—though Matt surely must have noticed it by now. “I mean—of course you did. We found the footage. We saw them break you out. But we didn’t know where you’d gone.”

Matt pulled back, his brow furrowed. “We?”

Shiro thought of Pidge, who had never given up hope of finding her family. He had to get back to her. She had to know Matt was alive. “My team,” he said. “Your—”

“ _Team?_ Wait, you mean you got out? You escaped?” Matt shook his head, rolling off Shiro and sitting beside him, pursing his lips the way he did when presented with a particularly tough puzzle. “Then what were you doing back there? How did they recapture you? Is your team all right? And do _you_ have any idea what Operation Kuron is, because Ellent’s still not having much luck with the encrypted files, and…”

A sliver of ice seemed to have embedded itself at the base of Shiro’s spine. He sat, rigid, as Matt’s voice trailed off, memories pressing at his awareness. More dreams than memories—fragments of conversations, impressionist paintings of Galra labs and syringes full of glowing liquid.

“Takashi?”

Shiro flinched as Matt’s hand brushed his arm. He stood, backing toward the far side of the room—a small space, not quite as large as the paladin quarters on the castle-ship, with a second bed along the far wall and only a single door.

“Operation Kuron,” Shiro said, pressing his left hand to his forehead. “I’ve heard that before.”

Matt stood, holding his hands out like he was calming a wild beast. “That’s where we found you. It was a Galra ship. They had you suspended in a glass tube full of this weird blue stuff. We probably should have taken a sample, but we were in a little bit of a rush and you weren’t responding, so...”

“There was another one.” When Shiro closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was back there, trapped in a pod. He was facing the door of the lab, which opened, and for just an instant, Shiro swore he saw—himself. “There was another room across the hall, wasn’t there?”

“Uh, yeah.” Matt took a step closer, his eyes locked on Shiro’s, and slowly curled his fingers around Shiro’s wrist, tugging his hand away from his forehead. “You remember?”

“A little. Operation Kuron, it--” He broke off with a laugh. Was that just a grand, cosmic coincidence, he wondered? Or had they somehow pulled that from his memories? “Kuron. Clone.” He lifted his head, staring at Matt’s horrified expression. “They cloned me.”

“ _What?_ ”

Shiro could see him—that _other_ him. Trapped in a prison just like Shiro’s, with the same scars, the same white in his hair, nearly the same prosthetic, even. He wondered if the clone had been created wholesale with druidic magic, or if they’d grown him. Had they had to recreate every scar across Shiro’s body? Cut off his arm just to give him a prosthetic? Had the clone been conscious for all of it?

“Was he there?” Shiro asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. “The other me?”

Matt shook his head. His grip on Shiro’s wrist tightened. “There was another room, but… no, Shiro. It was just you. I don’t—you’re _sure_?”

Shiro couldn’t answer. He’d seen the clone. He was sure of it. Why dream it otherwise? There had been a clone—had they sent it out? Had they sent it back to the other paladins? They wouldn’t question it, especially if he’d been gone long enough for Haggar to grow a clone. (Or had it been growing all this time, just waiting for the right time to make the switch?) Either way, it made no difference. His friends would be happy to have him back, and they’d never stop to wonder whether they’d just welcomed in a spy and a saboteur. The damage that clone could wreak on the castle—on the _paladins_ \--

“We have to find them.”

“Find them?” Matt didn’t try to hold Shiro back, but he kept pace as Shiro crossed to the door, glanced both ways down the corridor outside, then headed off to the left for no other reason than that his left arm was still his own, still untainted by the Galra. “Who’s _them_?”

“My team. The paladins. I think the Galra must have sent my clone to them.”

“If he’s still alive.”

Shiro stopped, turning toward Matt. His breath hung suspended in his chest, though he didn’t know why he should. “What do you mean?”

Something in Shiro’s tone must have made Matt reconsider what he’d been about to say, for he hesitated, his eyes sliding to the blank wall beside them. After a moment, his shoulders slumped. “There were signs of a battle in the ward where they had you. We thought maybe someone else had tried a rescue, but I don’t see why they would have only taken one of you. I think it’s more likely your clone went rogue. Maybe he didn’t like what they were trying to make him do, or maybe he just hated being a prisoner. He tried to escape, and maybe he made it, maybe he didn’t. Either way, the odds that he’s still out there and hasn’t been captured are pretty slim.”

“Unless they wanted him to--” Shiro cut off suddenly as the world around him seemed to tilt.

“You think they let him escape?” Matt tapped his chin. “Really sell the illusion? I guess if he’s a sleeper agent, that might make sense, but don’t you think that’s a little Cold War for the Galra?”

Shiro nodded, his movements jerky, and said nothing until Matt offered to take him to see the leaders of this rebel sect.

Sleeper agents.

If the clone was a sleeper agent, he would have to believe himself the real Shiro. There would be no way to know for sure which was the real Shiro until the clone’s programming kicked in, by which point it would be too late.

But didn’t that mean Shiro himself might actually be the clone?

He rejected the thought at once; he _knew_ he was real. He had all his memories—or at least, no more holes than he’d had before. He _felt_ the restlessness inside him that had been his constant companion since his first capture. The burning need to _live_ and the whisper of guilt that never quite left him alone. What use would a clone have for guilt?

(But wouldn’t the clone feel the same? The act would have to be flawless.)

Shiro didn’t voice his doubts—baseless fears, surely, not worth wasting his breath on. Matt gave no sign that he’d seen what Shiro had. He talked Shiro though the layout of the ship, told him everything that had happened since they were separated. Shiro did his best to listen, ignoring the twinges of panic that arose when he thought about Galra programming suddenly rising to the surface. He’d done enough damage with an ordinary sword; he didn’t want to think what wounds he could inflict if he turned his weaponized prosthetic against Matt, too.

Eventually, they came to the bridge—a dark, cramped space with hardly enough room for the pilot, three other officers, and a command station at the center. Shiro didn’t recognize the species to which any of them belonged, though four of the five seemed to hail from the same world. Matt was greeted with smiles and polite nods, and Shiro hung back as he spoke to the tall, pink-furred alien Shiro assumed was the captain.

“Cloning?”

Matt nodded. “That’s what it sounds like.” He turned, waving Shiro forward. “Commander, this is Takashi Shirogane. Shiro, Ellent. She commands the rebels in this sector.”

Shiro gave a shallow, instinctive bow, and Commander Ellent nodded her head. “A pleasure.”

“Please,” Shiro said. “Do you have any ships I could take? I need to get back to my team. If there’s a clone there--”

Ellent held up a hand. Her dark eyes bored into him, her gaze so intense Shiro had to fight the urge to look away. He had a hard time reading her expression, though he thought he caught a glimpse of suspicion in her eyes, but then it was gone.

She waved a hand toward the door. “I’ll have to review our supplies. I’ll get back to you before the end of the day.”

* * *

Shiro found Keith on the training deck the day after the battle. He had to smile at it—the way some things never changed. Shiro had vanished, then returned. Keith had taken his place in the Black Lion. They’d all nearly died the day before, facing down Lotor and his new meteor-built ship.

And still Keith was here, working himself to the bone just to do it all again tomorrow.

“Shiro.” Keith seemed surprised to see him, quickly calling out an end to the training sequence and deactivating his bayard. The black bayard. Shiro couldn’t help the twinge of pain—of jealousy—at seeing it. After everything he’d gone through to take it back from Zarkon…

“How are you feeling?” Shiro asked brightly. “I know yesterday was a rough day for us all.”

“I’m fine.” Keith squared his shoulders, his chin jutting out as though in challenge. “I thought we already talked about this.”

Shiro balked, dropping the hand that had been reaching for Keith’s shoulder. “I wasn’t… Keith, I’m not here to reprimand you. I just want to know that you’re all okay. I was gone for a long time, and when I got back I was...”

“Recovering,” Keith said at once.

Shiro managed a small smile. “That’s one way to put it.”

After a moment, the rigid set of Keith’s shoulders relaxed, and he let the bayard vanish. He turned to face Shiro more fully, but kept his eyes downcast as he shuffled forward. “Sorry,” he said. “You’re right; it’s been a long couple of weeks.”

“But at least we’re all back together now, right?” Shiro lifted his hand again, something inside him uncoiling as Keith let it land on his shoulder, even lifted his own hand to cover it.

“I just… I don’t get it, Shiro. Why won’t the Black Lion let you pilot her? _You’re_ her paladin. You’re a way better leader than me—just look at yesterday. I almost cost us the mission.”

Shiro opened his mouth, searching for words to say to sooth Keith’s irritation. For the first time in a long while, he found himself at a loss.

Keith turned to pace the room, breaking away from Shiro’s touch. “And it wasn’t just yesterday. The whole time you were gone, I—I screwed up, okay? Every time they needed me to lead them, I screwed up. I almost cost us allies because I couldn’t get out of my own head long enough to realize what they needed to hear, I let Lotor lure me into a trap that almost got everyone killed… I couldn’t even convince Allura that the alternate reality Alteans were full of shit!”

“Alternate reality?” Shiro asked.

Keith spun, yanking off his helmet and holding it in his hands. “I’m _not_ a leader, Shiro. I’m not the black paladin.” He turned, and the uncertainty in his eyes hit Shiro like a punch to the gut. “I thought when you got back everything would go back to the way it should be.”

Shiro knew he should say something. A real leader would be ready with a word of encouragement or a gentle suggestion—something to snap Keith out of this downward spiral, which Shiro himself had started yesterday when he challenged Keith’s authority in battle.

But Shiro had nothing.

_Maybe this is why Black doesn’t want you anymore._

It was a soft voice, and it sounded far too much like Haggar. Shuddering, Shiro followed Keith over to the panel in the wall that held the water pouches.

“It’s going to be okay, Keith,” he said. “You’re doing your best.”

“And what if my best isn’t good enough, huh?” Keith spun, his hands spreading wide. Shiro stared at him, shocked, his mind running up against that cool, smooth blankness that had greeted him inside the Black Lion’s cockpit.

No. This wasn’t about Shiro’s bond with his lion. It was about Keith. Paladin or no, Shiro could still be there for Keith—his best friend, the kid who’d latched onto him nearly four years ago and never let go. The kid who’d become as good as family, and who needed Shiro to show him what he was capable of.

Shiro was too slow. Even as he wracked his brain for inspiring words, he saw the flash of hurt in Keith’s eyes. Then, as easily as curtains drawn shut behind a window, the vulnerability was gone from Keith’s eyes. His mouth cut a flat line across his face, his eyes sank back to the floor, and he nodded.

“Good talk,” he said, his tone flat.

Shiro knew that tone. He knew that expression. It was the mask Keith wore when he had to deal with someone who’d already given up on him. Teachers, social workers, even his peers. _You don’t care what I do,_ that face said. _So why the hell should I?_

 _No,_ Shiro thought desperately. _No, Keith, I'm sorry. Don’t do this to yourself._

“Keith,” Shiro said, reaching out after him as he headed for the door. “Wait--”

But Keith was gone, leaving Shiro standing alone on the training deck, the first fragments of a shattering team falling down around him. He’d been their rock for so long; they _needed_ him to be strong. Hadn’t Keith told him that yesterday before the battle?

Shiro wanted to be strong for them, but something had changed when the Galra recaptured him. His iron will, his silver tongue.

Black’s rejection had only been the last, greatest wave that broke the dam. She’d seen what he’d been trying too hard to ignore. He was broken, and if he didn’t figure out a way to fix himself—or at least bury his issues down deep—his friends were going to be the ones who suffered.

* * *

“Tell your friend he can take one of the S-80Xs.”

Matt glanced up from his current maintenance project. Ellent stood in the door of the hangar, her scowl so deep Matt almost thought he’d heard wrong. An S-80X was a shuttle with a maximum capacity of four—the smallest the rebellion had access to that could still support a hyperdrive. It wasn’t the smoothest ride in the universe, but it was more generous than Matt had honestly expected.

Belatedly, he remembered to clap a hand to his chest in salute, and he scrambled to his feet as Ellent turned to leave, tossing aside the goggles with corrective lenses. “Wait—ah!” He staggered, wounded leg throbbing. He’d forgotten that he’d taken the brace off while he worked, as he hadn’t yet figured out how to keep it from pinching when he bent his leg. The old weakness was quick to remind him of his mistake.

Commander Ellent caught him before he could faceplant at her feet, and Matt flushed as he steadied himself against the wall.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just—Shiro is one of the people I’ve been looking for. He’s...” The heat in Matt’s cheeks rose higher, but he raised his chin and met Ellent’s gaze steadily. “He’s the most important person in the universe to me. I can’t lose him again.” His bravado faltered, and he dropped his gaze to the level of Ellent’s chin. “Sorry,” he added.

Ellent let out a sigh that shook her whole body. It didn’t sound like a particularly angry sigh, nor was it a surprised one. She’d been expecting this.

“You sure you can trust him?” she asked, her voice low and solemn.

Matt looked up at her, frowning. “Of course I can trust him. Why…?” Oh. It was obvious now that he thought about it. Shiro was an unknown element, as far as the rebellion was concerned. They were very picky about the prisoners they brought back to their ships, and Shiro—part of a secret, high-priority experiment they knew nothing about, except what Shiro himself had provided—was something of a wild card. “Is that why you’re giving him such a nice ship? Let me guess: you’ve already wiped the hard drive. Nothing to compromise the rest of you once he’s gone.”

Ellent didn’t stoop so low as to deny it. Instead, she just looked at him, her coal-black eyes glittering in the floodlights set up around Matt’s work area. “I have said from the beginning—you are not a prisoner here. If you wish to leave, you may do so. But are you _sure_ you can trust this man? Are you _absolutely certain_ he is who he says he is?”

“What? Of course he is!”

“He freely admits that he was cloned.”

Matt snorted. “And you think the one we rescued is the fake? Please. I’d know.”

“Would you?”

Matt crossed his arms, fighting down a surge of anger--and of fear. “I’d _know._ ”

“Very well.” Ellent raised one hand in a gesture of surrender, then backed into the hall. “I wish you well, Matthew. You can depart whenever you are ready.”

Matt saluted again, watching Ellent go with a quiet rage simmering in his bones. It was one thing to be wary of a stranger, but to think Shiro was—?

No.

It was ridiculous.

Matt stalked back to his work station and stared at the schematics of the stabilizer he’d been trying to adjust. He just needed to recalibrate the fronsagt and then it would be all set. He’d be leaving the rebels without a chief engineer, but at least he wouldn’t have any major unfinished projects lying around.

But after staring at the screen for five minutes, unable to tear his mind away from spiraling thoughts of clones and Shiro and arguments with Commander Ellent he would never have, Matt gave up. He’d never asked for this job, and the ship was leaps and bounds ahead of how he’d found it four months ago. They could live with one jittery stabilizer until they found someone else to recruit.

He pulled the goggles off once more, wincing at the headache they’d given him, but stopped short of tossing them aside. The prescription wasn’t perfect, and they hurt like hell, but they were the only thing he’d yet found that helped with his vision. He’d have to ask Ellent if he could take them with him.

Switching off the lights in the hangar, Matt felt an unexpected pang of regret. He wouldn’t call this place a home, not the way Earth was home, and he wouldn’t call any of the rebels family the way Shiro had become family. But they’d given him something better than the life he’d resigned himself to after his capture. He’d found a purpose here, and his crew, at least, had become friends.

He was surprised to realize he’d miss them.

This late in the cycle, the _Avra V_ was quiet, only a few workers still roaming the lower decks. Most everyone else was either in the crew quarters on Deck Three or at their stations for the night watch. Matt was the only one in the elevator as he rode up to the room he’d been assigned. Shiro had been placed in the empty one next door, but the indicator light glowed red—a sign that either Shiro was asleep, or he didn’t want to be disturbed.

Matt’s heart sank at the sight. Shiro had come straight back here after the meeting with the commander, citing a need to shower and shave, and a pounding headache that he guessed was either fatigue or stress. After everything he’d been through, Matt figured, Shiro deserved a bit of rest. Matt could tell him the good news in the morning, and they could head out after breakfast.

Matt’s room was dark and quiet, and he tripped over the spare parts that had accumulated on his floor over the last several months. His knee throbbed a protest, and he gritted his teeth, collapsing onto his bed with a grateful sigh. Pulling off his brace, he massaged the swollen joint. His fingers found the line of his scar and stilled, his thoughts straying back to darker memories.

He wondered how many scars Shiro had taken for him within the walls of the Arena.

Matt worked slowly through his nightly routine, trying to spare his knee. The rescue mission yesterday had left him aching, and he’d rather not agitate it more before the start of their hunt for Shiro’s team in the cramped cockpit of the S-80X. He’d taken short jaunts in the shuttles before, mostly after fixing them up so he could see if he had it running right again, so he knew there wasn’t much room to stretch. Hell, in some ways it was worse than the _Persephone—_ the cute little Earth shuttle they’d taken to Kerberos. At least on the _Persephone_ there was no gravity, so all that headroom didn’t go to waste.

Twenty minutes later, Matt was lying down, trying to quiet his thoughts so he could go to sleep. There was a _thump_ from the other side of the wall, followed by a quiet curse. Matt smiled, remembering late nights with Shiro at the Garrison. They’d already finished basic and were trying to juggle SpecTra--the degree program--with training for the Kerberos mission. Matt coped with caffeine and Shiro coped through sheer willpower, but there came a point, usually around three in the morning, when Matt started to find everything hilarious and Shiro’s hands forgot how to grip.

Matt had ended up buying himself a new set of thermoses after the third mug Shiro dropped on the floor of their little kitchenette.

Suddenly there was a crash, far louder than the last, and Matt was at his door before he consciously registered that that wasn’t the sound of clumsy hands dropping a brush.

“Shiro?” Matt called, pounding on his door. The light beside it still burned red, and he waited for a second to see if Shiro was going to answer.

Nothing.

“Shiro, are you okay? It sounded like something...” He trailed off, not sure whether _like something exploded_ was too dramatic.

Still no answer. Matt pressed his ear to the door, his heart now pounding. For a moment, all he could hear was the whir of the ship, the hum of circulating air. Then, faintly, he heard a voice. It was low, pained, and uneven, and Matt’s adrenaline kicked into overdrive.

He ripped the cover off the indicator panel, hands moving automatically through the motions of overriding the lock—a skill he’d mastered early on, and mostly out of boredom. He’d thought, briefly, that Ellent was hiding something that might lead him to his father, and by the time he’d realized that was paranoia and nearly a year’s worth of captivity speaking, he’d already figured out how the ship's locks worked.

The door slid open without a protest, and Matt could hear the voice more clearly now. It was definitely Shiro, but too soft to make out words. It sounded muffled, like he was lying face down, and—God, was he hurt?

Matt rushed forward, limping only a little on his bad leg, and slammed against the bathroom door. Light leaked under the bottom, and the sound of running water drowned out Shiro’s muttering. Matt pounded, calling Shiro’s name.

Suddenly, Shiro fell silent.

Matt hesitated, fear warring with embarrassment. What if he’d freaked out over nothing? It had happened before. He’d burst into the mess hall certain there was a fight raging within, only to find the crew laughing at Jevi’s retelling of her latest mission.

“Shiro?” Matt asked hesitantly. “Can I come in?”

Shiro gave a soft reply that sounded mostly affirmative, and Matt cautiously touched his hand to the sensor beside the door. It slid aside, and Matt staggered back. Shiro sat on the floor, his back against the glass door of the shower, his legs pulled up to his chest. He’d changed into the pantaloons that were standard issue in the rebellion, but his shirt sat untouched on the back of the toilet. The water coming out of the faucet steamed slightly, filling the air with a feeble mist.

All around him were shards of broken glass, the remnants of the mirror that had hung over the sink. Its frame sat crooked on the wall, a few last fragments of glass still holding on. The wall behind was dented, the metal warped like a lump of Play-Dough with a fist-sized divot.

It took only the barest glance at Shiro’s metal hand, now dusted with bits of glass and scuffed on the knuckles, to know what had happened.

Stepping gingerly, all too aware of his bare feet and the copious amounts of glass, Matt shut off the tap and made his way to Shiro’s side.

“You okay?” he asked.

Shiro tensed, burying his face in his arms. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

That wasn’t an answer, but it was more than silence, so Matt would take it. “I wasn’t asleep,” he said, brushing some glass aside to make a place for him to sit. He left a few inches between them and wrapped his arms around his knees. He’d had enough bad days to know that touch, however well-meaning, wasn’t always welcomed, so he left the decision of whether and when to reach out to Shiro and just sat with him.

Slowly, Shiro’s ragged breathing evened out, and he lifted his head, staring at the mess around him with weary eyes.

“I couldn’t stand the sight of me,” he said. “I just kept thinking about...”

“About the other you?” Matt guessed, ducking his head to meet Shiro’s eyes.

Shiro turned away. “I want to believe they’ll know it’s not me, but we can’t afford to underestimate Haggar’s power. If she set out to make a perfect copy, that’s what she got. They’ll never see it coming. Keith… Hunk and Lance… Katie…”

Matt’s breath caught in his throat. “Katie? As in…?”

“Your sister.” Shiro met his eyes, offering a lopsided smile. “I meant to tell you sooner. I just… didn’t know how. She was one of the ones who found me, the first time I escaped. I made it back to Earth, but the Garrison grabbed me, put me in quarantine, and sedated me when I tried to tell them what had happened. Katie and the rest of my team got me out.”

“And then you brought my fourteen-year-old sister into _space_? Where there’s a war happening?” Matt’s voice was not accusatory, mostly because he was still having trouble believing that this was not all some kind of joke, but Shiro still cringed.

“To be fair, she’s almost sixteen by now.”

Matt glared at him, and Shiro held up his hands in surrender.

“Sorry. I know that's not any _less_ awful.” With a deep breath, Shiro sat back, letting his head rest against the shower door behind him. “Have you heard of Voltron?”

“The weapon that defeated Zarkon? _Everyone’s_ heard of it.”

Shiro smiled. “That’s us. Me, Katie, and the others—we’re the paladins of Voltron. Sometimes I wonder what kind of monster I've become if I don't even bat an eye at leading a bunch of teenagers into war, but... it’s kind of hard to apologize when they've saved so many lives—mine included. Your sister is good as what she does, and if I tried to keep her out of the fighting, she’d just strike out on her own searching for you and your dad.” His face fell. “And right now Haggar’s clone could be watching them, waiting to strike.”

Matt slumped back beside him, blowing the hair out of his eyes. “Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah.” Shiro’s hands tightened on the fabric of his pants. “We _have_ to get back to them.”

“We will,” Matt said. “Commander Ellent’s giving us a shuttle. We can leave first thing in the morning.” He paused, looking around at the broken glass. His eyes caught on the scars criss-crossing Shiro’s torso—some ragged, some clean, most old and long-since healed—and he wondered if the clone was the only thing that made it hard for Shiro to look at himself in the mirror. “You going to be okay? I can stay for a while if you need the company.”

Shiro was already shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m fine now. You should go get some sleep.”

Matt lingered anyway, herding Shiro toward his bed and sweeping up the broken glass before Shiro got it in his head that that was his responsibility. He paused on his way out long enough to assure himself that Shiro was actually headed toward rest and not another emotional breakdown.

Once he was satisfied, Matt went back to his own room, sat on the edge of his bed, and burst into tears.

He didn’t know what it was he was crying for. Shiro’s pain, the danger Katie faced? The fact that he might get to see his family again, after all, despite more than a year of telling himself it was an empty dream?

Maybe it was all of them, too many emotions hitting him at once. He’d spent a very long time trying very hard not to care. It had become his last line of defense. Don’t get attached, because anyone might die at any moment. Don’t let yourself hope, because things aren’t going to get better. Don’t think about the things you lost. You’re never getting them back.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to give up that cold, unfeeling safety net.


	3. Bonds

Shiro stood before a closed door, his heart in his throat. It was early—earlier than he usually would have been up by several hours. Sleep had been hard to find, and dreams had woken him early. Dreams, he thought, of the Galra prison he’d woken up in nearly two weeks ago, though his memories of that place were too muddled to be sure.

Keith had been quieter than usual these past few days. Shiro had stopped training with the rest of the team, as Keith kept deferring to him. Everyone deferred to him, really, though Shiro had caught Lance talking with Keith in low tones about letting Shiro “walk all over” him. They’d both shut up as soon as they noticed Shiro, and Keith had made a break for the door. Lance let him go, though it seemed to physically hurt him.

Battles were, if possible, even worse. Shiro didn’t have it in him to hide while his friends fought, but inevitably Keith would leave the briefing to Shiro, let Shiro lay out the plan, then challenge Shiro’s authority once the mission began.

Shiro told himself that was Keith’s prerogative as the black paladin, but if he wanted to lead, he needed to _be a leader_ , on the battlefield and off.

It was tearing the team apart. No one knew who to listen to, and the constant tug of war over targets and tactics put everyone at risk. Sooner or later, Lotor and his generals would pounce on one such moment of indecision, and then it was all over.

So here Shiro was, standing outside the Black Lion’s hangar at three in the morning, trying to work up the courage for one last try.

No more straddling the fence, taking command while ostensibly leaving that role to Keith. Either he reconnected with Black and became once more the de jure leader of Voltron, or he accepted that his team had moved on, and he left Keith to command in truth.

Taking a deep breath, Shiro hit the door controls and stepped into the hangar. Black sat in her usual spot, eyes dark, form unmoving. He didn’t often take the time to notice how large she was, not since the first time he’d approached her, feeling like an ant approaching the Sphinx. He’d been as scared then as he was now, far too aware of his own weakness to believe that he was meant for this role. Back then, he’d seen enemies in every shadow, though his memories were too scrambled to understand why.

Now his memories were piecing themselves back together, and rather than enemies, it was his own flaws that haunted him.

“Hey,” he said, forcing his feet to carry him forward. His voice sounded like an intrusion into Black’s silent watch, echoing in the upper corners of the space, and his chest tightened in shame. “I know you already made your choice, and if you really want Keith over me, I’m not going to challenge you on that. I'm just trying to understand.”

His steps slowed as he neared the lion and she gave no reaction to his presence. Normally by now her eyes, at least, would have lit up. Normally she would have tilted her head to follow his progress across the hangar floor. Normally, when he wanted to enter her cockpit, she sensed his intent and lowered herself to meet him.

Today, he made it all the way to her front paws, still with no sign of recognition. His eyes burned, but he refused to cry. Not over this, even if Black _had_ been the one thing keeping him together after his ordeals at the hands of the Galra. He compacted his pain, tucking it behind his breastbone where he kept his guilt, his fear. His doubt. It didn’t hurt any less for hiding it away, but it was a hurt that could be endured.

He’d had a lot of practice at that.

“Please,” he said, placing his hand on her paw. “Can you at least tell me why? I know I said I wanted Keith to take over for me—and I know he has a lot of potential—but he’s...”

_He’s not ready._

Shiro remembered thinking the same about himself the first time he piloted Black. Too young, too scared, untested. Shiro had risen to the occasion, so why was it so hard for him to believe that Keith could do the same? Was it just jealousy? Was he really so petty?

Shiro’s shoulders ached with tension, drawing toward his ears as seconds passed and the silence went on unbroken.

Exhaling, Shiro lifted his head. “Fine.” If she wasn’t going to answer him, then he’d just get closer. Get inside her head—literally. Their connection might have been weakened by… whatever the Galra had done to him this time… but if there was anything left to salvage, then surely he would find it in the depths of her spirit.

There was a hatch on her chest he could open from the outside, and from there he could make his way to the cockpit. So he began to climb, ignoring the rumble that build beneath his fingers. Black could throw him off if she wanted; Shiro almost hoped she _would_. At least that would be an answer.

But she still didn’t move, and Shiro climbed on.

He was out of breath when he reached the cockpit, and he didn’t think it had very much to do with the exercise. This was where he’d first felt the Black Lion prodding at the corners of his mind. This was where she’d shown him her memories, where she’d helped him drive out Zarkon once and for all.

This was where she’d rejected him, too.

_Please. Please, just let me help them. Let me be **useful.**_

He sat and reached one trembling hand toward the controls. His finger brushed the leather grip, and then his seat slid back, slow and soft, like dreaming of running down a tunnel whose end retreated a little more with each step. The cockpit tilted. Black’s mouth opened.

It wasn’t the panicked ejection of their first battle with Zarkon, when she’d spat him out to keep him from being captured along with her, but the implication was clear.

_You don’t belong here._

Shiro sat for a long moment, stunned, before he dropped his outstretched hand, stood on numb legs, and walked out of the Black Lion. She raised her shield behind him, and the crackle of energy as it settled into place shattered the last of his composure.

He sat down, leaning back against the shield, and let the tears far.

* * *

“It’ll be like a road trip!” Matt said brightly, tossing a bag of spare clothes into the shuttle, along with his staff, a pair of goggles, and what appeared to be an alien toolkit. The shuttle was apparently capable of synthesizing something similar to Altean food goo, and the water cycler could keep up with as many as six people’s needs if the need arose.

Or so Matt said. Shiro figured he was just going to have to trust him on this.

“I’ve heard about your family road trips,” Shiro said dryly, glancing around once more before he headed up the ramp into the cockpit. He had no possessions to bring along, but he still felt like he was missing something. His paladin armor, maybe. Or the four teens who’d become a fixture in his life. Shaking off the feeling, he turned to flash a smirk Matt’s way. “I’m not sure I _want_ to road trip with you.”

Matt stuck his tongue out as he settled into the copilot’s seat. From the speed with which his hands flew across the controls, he’d had plenty of practice since Kerberos, but it was still odd to see him so at home in the cockpit. Commander Holt had acted as Shiro’s copilot, navigator, and comms officer, while Matt dealt with engineering and keeping the _Persephone_ hospitable.

The both of them had been sure to fill the long, uneventful trip from Earth to Kerberos with as many corny roadtrip games as possible—though to be fair, _I Spy_ was considerably harder when the people you were playing with made you guess the name of the specific star they were looking at.

Adjusting the odd, loose-fitting armor the rebels had given him, Shiro took his place at the controls. He familiarized himself with the array as Matt ran through the pre-flight checks—God, how long had it been since Shiro had had to do _that?_ Matt didn’t make a show of pointing out what every dial and knob and button did, but by the time they were ready to go, Shiro had a basic knowledge of how to fly this ship.

Matt glanced sidelong at him, a smile playing at his lips, and Shiro fought down the flutter in his stomach at the sight of it.

“One game,” he said, trying to put on the same stern face that kept his paladins in line.

Matt just smiled wider. “Yeah, go ahead and play it tough, Shirogane,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten your nine hundred-ninety-nine bottles of non-alcoholic beer on the wall marathon with my dad.”

Shiro laughed, though it suddenly felt as though the air had gone out of his lungs. _Commander Holt._ How could Matt talk about him with a smile on his face, like he wasn't still lost somewhere to the horrors of the Galra Empire? Shiro fell silent as they maneuvered out of the hangar, away from the _Arva V_ , and into open space. “You have any idea where they sent him?”

Matt stared straight ahead, his fingers dancing restlessly on the console. “No,” he said. “Four months of searching, and I haven’t found a damn thing.”

Shiro closed his eyes, then reached out and squeezed Matt’s shoulder. “We’ll find him.”

Matt scoffed.

“I mean it. You and Pidge together? There’s not a secret in this universe you won’t be able to crack.”

Chuckling, Matt glanced over at him. “Pidge? Is that what she’s calling herself now?”

“I gather there’s a story behind it.” Shiro shrugged. “All I know is Hunk and Lance already knew her as Pidge, and she decided to run with it, even after she admitted to being a girl.”

Matt’s eyebrows crept toward his hair. “After she _admitted_ to being a girl?” he echoed, but he held up a hand before Shiro could get going. “Business first. You know where we’re taking this heap of junk, or are we wandering space in search of one tiny space station?”

“No, uh.” Shiro glanced down at his arm, then quietly found the adapter he’d pulled out of the rebels’ stores and connected the port in his wrist to the console. “Some friends once left a calling card in here. If we can get to them, the should be able to track down the rest of the team.”

Matt watched with interest as the lines of code came up. Running off his vague memories of Pidge’s work, Shiro picked out the coordinates of the Blade of Marmora base and entered them into the nav computer.

“What kind of friends leave their address in your _arm?_ ”

“Galra rebels,” he said, watching Matt’s reaction closely. His expression flickered, something like skepticism flashing through his eyes, and then it was gone. “They’re the ones who got me out of the Arena in the first place.”

“Are they the ones who got you stuck back in Operation Kuron, too?” Matt asked sourly.

Shiro sighed, though he supposed he couldn’t blame Matt for his reaction. “I don’t know how I ended up there, to be honest. Some combination of Zarkon and teleportation, I’d guess. And no, the Blade had nothing to do with it.”

Matt left it at that, and if he still wasn’t convinced, it wasn’t Shiro’s place to tell him not to be paranoid. The Galra had left deep scars in the universe, and no one could expect those to heal overnight. He just hoped Matt trusted him enough not to attack the Blade on sight.

 _Can he trust_ you _, though?_

Shiro shut the thought down before it could take root, glad the cockpit didn’t have any reflective surfaces where he might catch a glimpse of his own reflection, with its too-thin face marked by dark bruises under his eyes and his too-long hair curling around his ears. He was already running low on sleep; he didn’t need questions about his own existence gnawing at him for the next twelve hours.

The nav computer whirred as it plotted their course. Hyperdrives like the one in this ship were much slower than true wormhole technology, and they had to account for black holes, stars, and other celestial bodies that could tear a ship apart. But people had been traveling the universe for millennia--far longer than Shiro had been a pilot.

Once the ship was on autopilot, Shiro sat back, letting his eyes roll toward Matt, who grinned.

“I spy, with my little eye...”

Shiro groaned. This was going to be a long flight.

* * *

The Galra rebels were surprised to see Shiro—surprised and wary. Matt didn’t need to hear anyone say that there was already a Shiro with the paladins to know it was true, and it made him tense up more than he already was. Fifteen hours in a shuttle the size of a lunchbox he could have handled—he’d trained for something very similar before the _Persephone_ launch, and during his months of captivity he’d seen far smaller accommodations.

Actually, he could have stayed here forever, just him and Shiro and the darkness of space—except that neither of them could go more than an hour without turning the conversation back towards Operation Kuron, or to Katie—Pidge, apparently—and their father. Having their fears about the clone confirmed wasn’t helping with his tension headache.

Neither was the fact that, despite all his assurances that the Blade of Marmora were allies and that they would never hurt Matt, Shiro looked like a cat facing down a mastiff as he approached the two towering figures waiting at the bottom of their ramp. The Galra rebels had been leery of meeting with Matt and Shiro, and when Shiro had finally convinced them that he was who he said he was, they’d emerged in a damn _warship_ to take the little S-80X shuttle aboard.

Shiro assured Matt the Galra weren’t lying when they said the shuttle would never be able to withstand the gravitational forces around their base—as though the fact that they were going to be stranded in there, fully dependent on the Galra to get out again, was supposed to comfort him.

“Paladin,” said one of the Galra—a leader, apparently, if the deferential posture of the masked figure behind him was any indication. “This _is_ a surprise.”

Shiro stopped two paces short of the Galra, Matt a good three feet further back. The entire hangar reeked of suspicion, and Matt’s less-than-ideal vision only made it worse. He could make out little of the man Shiro was talking to, except for some patches of red on his purple face and a long black coat.

And those glowing yellow eyes.

“Kolivan,” Shiro said, still standing as stiff as if he’d been turned to stone. “I assume from your reaction you were expecting me to be somewhere else.”

The Galra, Kolivan, was quiet for a long while, and Matt resisted the urge to drag Shiro back into the shuttle and take off in any direction that was _not here_. He reminded himself that his sister was in danger, and these people were his only way to find the paladins of Voltron before the entire war was over.

“Explain,” Kolivan said curtly. “I will reserve judgment until I have heard your story.”

Shiro instantly relaxed, breathing out a small sigh. He wasted no time in telling his story, turning occasionally to Matt for clarification on the details of Operation Kuron and the rebels who had rescued him. Kolivan never once interrupted, though he hummed thoughtfully as the story came out. The hum sounded a little more unhappy each time it came, until Matt wondered whether it was Shiro the man was preparing to attack or the Galra who had cloned him.

“Cloning,” Kolivan muttered when Shiro’s story was done. “There have been rumors that Haggar was exploring that possibility. Unfortunately, we were never able to get an operative close to the project.”

“But there’s another me on the Castle of Lions,” Shiro said. “Isn’t there?”

Kolivan nodded.

Shiro’s eyes fluttered shut. He breathed in, then nodded. “Okay.”

“Takashi?” Matt whispered, inching forward until he was close enough to grab Shiro’s arm. “You okay?”

Shiro gave him a thin smile, only turning halfway toward him before he refocused on Kolivan. “I can’t prove that he’s the clone. For all I know, it could be me.”

“It’s not.” The words burst out of Matt before he had time to wonder whether saying them in front of Galra was a smart move. But Shiro looked at him with something like longing in his eyes, and Matt stood his ground. “You’re real, Takashi. I would know if you weren’t.”

Kolivan hummed, a sound like an action movie heard from the next theater over, and Matt returned his gaze to him, reaching for the staff strapped to his back. “Thank you for your honesty, paladin. It doesn’t change anything, but it speaks well of your character.”

“Then you’ll help?” Shiro asked. Matt hadn’t heard him sound so uncertain in a long time. Not since their Garrison days, probably. He’d always been the one who knew who he was, where he was going, and how to get there.

“We will. The way I see it, the Black Lion is the best way to prove you are who you say you are.” Kolivan crossed his arms—arms that hadn’t seemed unusually thick to Matt until the muscles were on display like that. The guy could probably snap him in two without breaking a sweat. “From what I’ve heard, the Shiro with the paladins hasn’t been able to reconnect with his lion yet. The red kit is still leading them. Ostensibly.”

Shiro frowned, and Matt’s hold on his arm tightened, a silent question. Shiro covered Matt’s hand with his own, though he declined to elaborate. “Thank you, Kolivan,” Shiro said. “One more thing—would you mind not telling the others that we’re coming?”

Kolivan blinked once, then tilted his head to the side. “You’re afraid the clone will strike once he knows the gambit is up?”

“I just don’t want to take any chances.”

“Very well. It will be a long journey with this shuttle of yours. It would do you well to sleep here, where you have real food and real beds.”

Shiro glanced to Matt, who understood that the choice was his. If he wasn’t comfortable staying here, surrounded by Galra for an entire night, Shiro would go with him, no questions asked.

But Shiro had been a prisoner for—weeks? He and Kolivan had tried to workout a timeline, and it sounded as though it had been over a month since Shiro had vanished from the Black Lion’s cockpit. He might not remember most of that time, but Galra prisons were no better beds than their clone-pods for real rest. The shuttle would be nearly as bad—and they _would_ need to sleep before they confronted the clone.

“It’s fine,” Matt murmured, wondering if it really was. “Let’s stay.”

Shiro’s smile was worth the somersaults in his gut as Kolivan led the way to a hallway full of seemingly-identical guest rooms. They were smaller than the cabins on the _Arva V_ by a considerable margin, but they were comfortable enough—narrow bed with a thin but surprisingly cushy mattress, blankets soft from long use rather than by design, and a private washroom.

Matt sat on the edge of his bed as Kolivan’s footsteps faded, debating the pros and cons of crashing on Shiro’s floor for the night. Pro: more time with Shiro. Con: more time with Shiro that Shiro might rather spend alone—though of course he would never say so out loud. Pro: he (probably) wouldn’t be awake for the next four hours wondering when one of the Galra rebels was going to burst through the door and drag him off to the prison world. Con: Shiro would know he didn’t trust his friends.

Pro: the possibility, however slim, of sharing a bed with Shiro.

The thought instantly brought a flush to Matt’s face, and he mentally scratched it off the list as he undid the clasp on his knee brace. Bed-sharing was not happening tonight. Or ever, probably, however much Matt craved human contact in general and proximity to Shiro in particular.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered into his hands. “I thought I was _over this_.”

Someone knocked on the door, and Matt shot to his feet, embarrassment forgotten in the face of a possible threat.

Possible, but unlikely—right? Kolivan had said this wing had been unused for several decaphebes, and that he would make sure the others knew not to disturb them while they rested. Surely there was no reason for him to be back so soon, in any case.

“C-come in.”

The door slid aside, revealing Shiro, pillow and blankets gathered to his chest. He offered a smile that, though fuzzy from the ten feet between them, still had the power to make Matt melt inside.

“Hey,” Shiro said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Sorry if this is weird, but I was wondering if I could crash here tonight.”

Matt wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. An enthusiastic _yes_ seemed just as likely to make things awkward as his second instinct, an incredulous, _Why the fuck do you want to crash in_ my _room?_

Not that Shiro wasn’t a social person, or that they hadn’t had their share of late night slightly-punch-drunk conversations during the flight to Kerberos and even before that, when they’d been training for the mission and roommates during their SpecTra years.

But Shiro was… Well, he had his shit together, unlike Matt. And he _knew_ these people. What possible reason could there be for him to--

Oh.

“Is it that obvious?” Matt asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

Shiro’s eyes widened, and he tried to hold up his hands, only to remember the mounds of fabric he was juggling. “No,” he said, catching his pillow as it fell. “What? No—what are you talking about? Obvious?”

Matt smiled despite himself, but it faded quickly. “You still suck at lying. You’re here because you can tell I’m freaking out, aren’t you?”

“A little?” Shiro sighed, glancing away. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal. I probably never would have given them a chance if Ulaz hadn’t helped me escape—helped me escape, then sacrificed himself to save my team from one of Haggar’s weapons. And I still felt like I was walking into a trap when I came here with Keith. I wish I could have introduced you to them more slowly—just one or two of them on the castle-ship, surrounded by other humans and the Alteans.”

Matt could hear the conflict in his voice. He wasn’t lying when he said he understood, and Matt appreciated that. But he was trying to be fair to the Blade of Marmora, too. The logical part of Matt’s brain respected him for that; it couldn’t be easy to make allies in a universe that looked at you and saw the enemy.

That didn’t stop the voice of fear that told him every second he stayed here was putting him in danger.

“Kolivan said something back there,” Matt said instead. “He said your team was being led by the _red kit_. Was that—do you have a Galra on your team? Is that why it’s so important to you that I’m okay with this?”

Shiro stiffened, and Matt knew he’d hit the mark. He spluttered out a few vague protests—he didn’t care if Matt accepted the Galra (except clearly he did.) He didn’t want to make him feel bad (true, and Matt was grateful, but irrelevant.) It was late; shouldn’t they go to sleep?

Matt crossed his arms and waited, and eventually Shiro caved.

“You remember Keith?”

“The kid who was always following you around and getting in trouble?” _The one I snuck into the chem lab behind your back on more than one occasion?_ Matt added silently, and grinned through the unease clenching his gut. “I like Keith.”

Shiro breathed something that might have been a laugh. “He—God, Matt, I don’t know if he’d want me telling you this. I guess you’ll find out sooner or later. Keith’s part Galra. He didn’t know—none of us did until we met the Blade. His mom, or someone else in his family maybe, was a member of Kolivan’s rebellion here.”

“Oh.” Matt sat down on his bed, his smile slipping. “Well that's...something.”

Shiro lingered for a moment in the doorway, then shuffled inside. He dropped his bedding on the floor, then sat beside Matt. “You don’t need to be okay with it right away. I can talk to Keith. I just—I’m still figuring out how to be fair to everyone. The people who’ve been hurt by the Galra and are dealing with their own legitimate trauma _and_ the people like Keith and the Blade who are just trying to make things right.

Matt stared at his hands.

He hadn’t know Keith especially well, though they'd become something like friends because of their mutual friendship with Shiro. Keith, for a long time, was just the kid Shiro was mentoring, the “at risk” student Iverson wanted to be monitored so they didn’t waste resources on someone who was going to wash out anyway. But three years of popping in on their tutoring sessions and inviting Keith to sit with them at lunch and, occasionally, enabling some of Keith's more frowned-upon escapades had built a bridge between them. Keith was earnest and stubborn, and he _tried—_ he tried so hard, if only someone was willing to give him a chance.

“Okay,” Matt said.

Shiro shifted, and Matt felt his gaze on the side of his head. “Okay?”

Matt nodded. “I can’t promise I won’t… I still have my own shit to deal with, but I’ll give him a chance. I’ll give _them_ a chance.”

Shiro smiled that smile again, bright and exuberant, like Matt had just promised him the sun and all the stars. “That’s more than enough, Matt. Thank you.”

Maybe it was the smile that gave him the courage—certainly it seemed to have turned his insides into a supernova. He had to do something with the energy, or he thought he might just come apart.

So he grabbed Shiro by the wrist and tugged him down on the bed beside him. “You can stay,” he said, “but you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

“It’s—it’s no bother,” Shiro said, flushing. That only made the supernova burn hotter, and Matt turned his face to the wall before he did something else he regretted. “Really, Matt, I’m fine with the floor. I—”

“I’ve been alone for more than a year, Takashi,” Matt said. The lights had dimmed automatically—either part of the day/night cycle in the base, or a response to Matt lying down—and he was glad for it. There was a tremor in his voice, the words more vulnerable than deserved to be exposed to the light. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a little bit of cuddling.”

“It’s a small bed,” Shiro said, even as he laid down, the heat of his chest warming Matt’s back. He hesitated for a moment, then rested his hand on Matt’s arm. Matt reached up to cover it with his own, smiling into the darkness.

“Well, then. I’ve never been so happy to be mildly malnourished.”

“Matt...”

Matt rolled over, his nose brushing against Shiro’s as they came face to face, the bed too narrow for anything less intimate. Their legs tangled together, and Shiro’s hand came to rest, hesitantly, on Matt’s waist. Its heat went straight to Matt’s stomach and pooled there. “Sorry. Prison ruined my sense of humor.”

Shiro laughed at that, relaxing into the pillow. “Now _that_ I can understand.”

Matt smiled and pressed against Shiro, maneuvering them both until Shiro lay flat on his back, Matt curled up against his side, his head on Shiro’s shoulder. “This okay?”

Shiro turned his head, smiling softly. “Perfect,” he said.

They didn’t talk after that, though Matt remained wide awake as Shiro drifted off beneath him. Matt’s mind was a livewire, spinning away from him at the speed of light, too fast for coherent thought so all he ended up with was a silent scream as he rose and fell with Shiro’s steady breathing.

Slowly, he calmed, Shiro’s heartbeat lulling him. He tipped his head back as sleep finally began to sink its claws into him. For just a moment, he let himself stare at Shiro—openly, hungrily, trying to memorize every line of his face, every new scar, before Shiro disappeared again. He was as far removed from the Garrison's rising star as Matt was from the gangly nerd still living halfway in his father's shadow.

But he was _Shiro_ , and the warmth of his skin beneath Matt's hands brought to mind slow evenings in the _Persephone's_ crew quarters, talking about earth and about space and debating the best way to serve a pizza (Shiro said bagels, Matt said calzones, and Matt's dad, Italian to the bone, called them both heathens and refused to encourage that line of conversation.)

Closing his eyes, Matt let himself drift, content for the first time in recent memory as he sank deeper into Shiro's presence.

“You know something, Takashi?” he whispered to the night. "I think I might love you."

* * *

Shiro didn’t know how long he sat there, curled in on himself against the wall Black had erected to keep him out. Long enough that his legs started to cramp, though that wasn’t enough to make him release his death-grip on his knees. Long enough for his neck to start aching and his near-perpetual headache to return, pounding at the base of his skull like a drumbeat.

He heard footsteps approaching, and the part of him that still thought of himself as a leader told him to get up, to put on a smile, to be the paladin these kids needed him to be.

But he was so _tired._

“It hurts,” Lance said.

Shiro looked up, waiting for Lance to continue, and found Lance watching him. He seemed older than when Shiro had left them. Older and more perceptive. Steadier. Shiro had to wonder what had happened to this team while he was drifting through oblivion in that Galra prison. Oh, he’d heard the generalities of it, but none of the details. Not about any of them but Keith. Who of them had broken without Shiro there? Who had been the rocks?

Looking at Lance now, Shiro thought he must have been the one to hold this team together.

“What do you mean?” Shiro asked carefully as Lance sat beside him.

Lance tipped his head back, lifting his fist to knock twice against the barrier behind them. “Blue did the same to me.”

“She… did?”

“Mmm.” Lance smiled at him, weakly, then dropped his gaze to the floor. “Keith had already had his heart-to-heart with Black, and Red had rejected Allura. There was a battle, so there I come, down to the hangars, just like always, ready to fly out to meet them… only Blue won’t let me in. I mean, sure, turns out it was because Red wanted me to pilot _her_ , and Blue was about to do her thing with Allura, but still.” He shrugged, pulling his knees up to his chest. “It hurt.”

Shiro laughed once, trying to stave off the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “It kinda does.”

“But hey,” Lance said, leaning over until their shoulders bumped together. “At least we’re in the same boat, right?”

“And what boat is that?” Shiro asked, hating the bitterness that clung to his teeth, staining every word that came out of his mouth. “How, exactly are we the same? In that we’re both broken? Both pathetic? Here to fill a hole until someone better steps up? What’s next, do you think? Red chooses Coran, and then you and I can sit here twiddling our thumbs while all the _real_ paladins go out there and make a difference?”

A soft, shuddering breath cut him off, and he looked up to see Lance staring, wide-eyed, into the distance, one hand pressed to his mouth like he was trying not to make a sound. Or like he was going to be sick. He looked pale, except where a deep crimson blush had overtaken his cheeks. There were tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

Shiro’s heart hit the floor.

“Oh,” he breathed, uncurling. His hand reached out for Lance even as his feet coiled under him, ready to run, ready to fight. “Shit, Lance, I—I didn’t mean—”

Lance waved his hands, the motion tinged with desperation. “It’s fine.” The words were strangled, and Lance wouldn’t meet Shiro’s eyes. “I get it. It _sucks_ , but sometimes you just--sometimes you need someone to vent to, right?”

He flinched as Shiro’s hand touched his shoulder. Flinched, wavered, then crossed his arms atop his knees and buried his face. His shoulders began to shake with silent sobs, and Shiro snatched his hand back. Something within him was screaming for him to fix this, to comfort him, to _act like a goddamn leader, you selfish bastard._

It sounded like his own voice, but it felt like a stranger's.

He sat there, frozen, for a long while, mind spinning futilely, tongue straining to form words. More than once, he nearly reached out to pull Lance into a hug, and each time he held himself back.

_You’ll only make it worse._

He didn’t know how to fix this. Hell, he couldn’t even put himself back together. How was he supposed to help his team?

But then, they weren’t _his_ team anymore, were they? He was no one. He didn’t belong here.

Panic rose in his throat, stealing his breath, whiting out the edges of his vision. His fingers grasped at the floor beneath him, searching desperately for something on which to ground himself. He found nothing but metal as smooth and cold as Black’s barrier. His head pounded, and he clutched at his chest, wondering how much more of this it would take before he blacked out.

He fled before Lance could watch him fall apart.


	4. Counterfeit

Shiro couldn’t hide forever. However much he wanted to.

In one week, he’d alienated Keith, pissed off the Black Lion, and made Lance cry. He wasn’t a paladin; he wasn’t a leader.

But he was suck here, and so he _had_ to find a way to make this work. After his disastrous conversation with Lance in the Black Lion’s hangar, Shiro had retreated to one of the outlying towers, where the paladins rarely ventured. He found a room with a bench lining one wall beneath a broad window and sat in the corner, his feet bare pulled up on the cushion beneath him.

He missed breakfast, staring out at the stars and wondering how the hell he was supposed to make things right when he couldn’t even get his own thoughts in line. After breakfast was morning combat training, but Shiro hadn’t showed up in days; they wouldn’t miss him today.

As lunchtime approached, though, Shiro finally dragged himself away from the quiet room and the unobstructed view of the stars. He didn’t have a plan, but avoiding the issue was only making things worse. So he sought out Allura and told her he was stepping down.

“Keith is the black paladin now. I can’t keep stepping on his toes like this.”

Allura’s lips turned down in a scowl. “All right. What, exactly, are you intending?”

“For now, minimizing my interactions with the others during battle or training. Keith needs room to develop as a leader, and me being there is only muddying the waters, making him second-guess himself.”

“So you’re going to ignore him instead?”

Shiro hesitated. “Not… _ignore_.”

Allura stepped forward, facing him down despite the inches of height that separated them. “Shiro,” she said. “You may be right about Keith still… finding his footing, shall we say. But you can _help_ him.”

Shiro thought of his argument with Keith, of the nearly disastrous battle with Lotor’s new ship. Both times, he’d thought he was helping. Both times ended with Keith hurt and angry and the team’s stability threatened. “No,” he said. “I can’t.”

“Shiro--”

“I’m sorry, Princess.” Shiro held up his hands to stop whatever argument she was going to make. “I’ve already made my decision. I just wanted you to be aware.”

* * *

Lunch was awkward after that. Shiro did his best to ignore Allura’s eyes on the side of his head, though they bore into him with the heat of the Red Lion’s fire blast. Whatever emotion that gaze contained, whether pity, concern, or anger, he wasn’t in a mood to deal with it.

Across the table, Keith and Lance were trying just as hard to ignore Shiro. Keith pushed his goo around his plate, glaring at it like if he tried hard enough he could will the nutrients into his body without going through the hassle of actually eating. Meanwhile Lance shoveled his meal down so fast Shiro thought he might choke. Neither said a word or lifted their eyes from the table once during the meal.

It was strange, and Shiro obviously wasn’t the only one to think so. Hunk and Pidge both tried to entice Lance into their debate of the relative virtues of the mice as couriers, and Chuchule even came over to lean against his hand, giving the best space mouse impersonation of puppy eyes Shiro had every seen. Lance just smiled a muted smile and lowered his spoon to let the mouse eat some of his goo.

Eventually, Hunk and Pidge stopped trying, and the room fell into awkward silence.

As soon as Lance finished eating, he stood, muttering an excuse Shiro didn't catch. He paused behind Keith’s chair, and Keith pushed his plate away. They left together, Hunk and Pidge staring after them. Allura’s eyes never left Shiro.

* * *

After lunch, Shiro found himself on the bridge with Pidge, Hunk, and Coran—mostly because Pidge had asked him to be there, and only slightly as a way to avoid a confrontation with any of the others.

“So I’ve been to these planets,” Pidge was saying, pointing to red markers on a map displayed above her station. “I haven’t found much that points to Matt specifically, but he was definitely picked up by rebels.” She paused, her eyes sliding to where Coran stood running checks on the castle’s systems. “That, or Coran’s old crew of fashion pirates is still alive and kicking.”

Coran laughed once, defiantly. “I’d like to see your brother try to keep up with my fashion sense.”

“Honestly? So would I.” Pidge gave a toothy grin as she went back to scrolling through what appeared to be a single massive wall of text. “Anyway, the explosives are my next lead.” She hit the enter key, and a holographic model of a complex molecule appeared in the air. “Nanothermite titanium-boron. It’s pretty rare, but not rare enough. Mined on the planets in the Tershum System, sold to the Galra locally, and shipped to Balrex-4 for… quieter transactions. I figure I can hit all these points in four days—five tops. If I leave tomorrow--”

“Wait.” Shiro held up a hand to stop her. “ _Leave?_ ”

“Well… yeah.” She turned around in her seat, frowning at him. “How else am I supposed to check these places out? We don’t exactly have Space Google Street View—and as much as I’d love to avoid dealing with people, I might need to actually ask some questions.”

Hunk snorted a laugh into his computer screen, where he was studying the castle’s schematics in an effort to take on some of Coran’s workload.

“You’re a paladin, Pidge,” Shiro said, trying to sound reasonable. “This team needs you.”

Pidge rolled her eyes, gave a dramatic sigh, and slouched down, fingers swiping at the screen as she pulled up a navigational display. “You sound like Allura.”

Shiro’s headache was back, pounding at his skull like a sledgehammer, and he rubbed his forehead. “Look, I’m not saying we shouldn’t look for your brother. But five days is a long time for the others to go without being able to form Voltron.”

“But I’m _so close_ , Shiro! If I can just figure out who these rebels are, we can find him!”

_You’re never going to find him, Pidge._

For once, Shiro managed to bite down on his words before they escaped. They rattled in his chest, making his heart pound and his headache turn sharper. Anger blurred his vision and shame heated his neck, and a sudden, overpowering despair brought a tremor to his hands.

 _We’re never going to find him._ He wasn’t sure if he believed it, or if he was just too scared to hope when so much had been going so wrong lately. The Shiro who had believed in the endless possibilities of the universe had died in a Galra prison, and the man standing here, staring down at a girl full to the brim of stubbornness and pride, didn’t have the first clue how she still managed to believe that she’d get her happy ending.

Coran was looking at him now, eyes sharp, as though he’d sensed what Shiro wanted to say. Shiro ducked his head, avoiding his friends’ eyes. _What’s wrong with you?_ he demanded of himself. His nails dug into his palm, and he forced the despair away, filling himself up with a hollow imitation of Pidge’s optimism.

“How about this? I’ll go check out these places for you. I’ll call you the second I find anything that seems even a little bit important—heck, you can send a recorder with me if you want, and you can review all my conversations in case I miss something.” He spread his hands the way he’d done so many times before: a gesture of peace and compromise. Just now it felt like a lie. “That way you still get your information, but the others aren’t put at risk.”

Pidge’s face darkened, but she grunted her agreement. "I guess I can live with that."

Shiro smiled, resting his hand atop her head. “We’ll find him, Pidge. I promise.”

Even that felt like a lie, and with Coran still watching him, Shiro’s skin began to crawl. He held himself in place for a moment, trying to lend Pidge his support as she ironed out the details of the hunt for him, and told himself this was all for the best. If he was gone, Keith wouldn’t have to worry about him breathing down his neck. If he was gone, the team could settle back into the rhythm they’d found without him.

If he was gone, maybe he’d stop feeling like coming home had been a mistake.

* * *

Keith found him less than an hour later.

“You’re _leaving?_ ”

Shiro brushed past him. “I can’t do this with you, Keith. Not now.”

“Like hell you can’t.” Keith spun, chasing after Shiro, and snagged him by the elbow to make him stop. “We _just_ found you. You were half dead from starvation and dehydration a _week ago_ , Shiro!”

“I’ll be fine,” Shiro said. “It’s just a little recon.”

“Just a little recon alone in enemy territory!"

Shiro sighed. His headache had only gotten worse since he’d made his escape from the bridge, and arguing wasn’t going to help matters any. He was tired, he was sore, and he couldn’t force himself to act like everything was normal. An odd sort of emptiness had taken up residence in his chest, and it only seemed to be spreading.

“Keith...”

“I can’t lose you again, Shiro.” Keith's voice was raw, all the pain, all the fear rising to the surface. For almost a week, he’d looked at Shiro with nothing but sullen anger—when he bothered to look Shiro in the face at all.

Now he was splintering, strain around his eyes, lips trembling like he was on the verge of tears. Shiro had rarely seen Keith like this—not at all since they were stranded together on the alien planet and Shiro had asked Keith to take over for him if he didn’t make it. Not even in the wake of the Trials at Blade headquarters had Keith been this vulnerable, though the stress of that revelation had brought him close to the edge of breakdown.

Shiro breathed out, reaching back to simpler times when it hadn’t been such a struggle to be the constant Keith needed in his life. “You won’t lose me.” He reached out, gripping Keith by the shoulders. “I’m never going to do that to you, Keith, whatever life throws at me. I’ll always find my way back.”

Keith’s composure wavered, and he sagged against Shiro, arms wrapping around his waist. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

He felt something ease in Keith’s stance, some wall between them come down. He could remember this happening before—when Keith was in public school, verging on expulsion but too angry to get himself back in line, and he’d realized Shiro meant it when he said he wanted to help. The again after Kerberos, when they’d reunited at the desert shack where they used to go when Garrison life got to be too much for Keith.

Funny. Shiro remembered feeling...  _more_ when Keith dropped his walls like this before.

Keith clung to him for a few minutes longer, and Shiro let him, squeezing his shoulders in a way that should have felt more like a connection and less like something he did by rote. There was more between them than a few customary gestures and some trite lines—wasn’t there? They were friends. Brothers.

So why did it feel like Shiro was a spectator into someone else’s life?

Eventually, Keith pulled away, and a stranger would have thought that the momentary slip had never happened. Shiro knew him better than that. He saw the smile pulling at the corners of his eyes, the ease in the slope of his shoulders. All those little details pulled at the knot of tension still lurking in Shiro’s chest, but he put on his best and brightest smile and ducked his head.

“You okay?”

Keith nodded, fiddling with his sleeves. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Shiro said. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

The sooner the better, really.

If Keith noticed that Shiro was holding something back, he didn’t comment on it. Shiro wondered if that spoke more to his own acting skills or to the strange disconnect that had been there since he’d escaped the Galra for the second time.

His head pounded as he parted ways with Keith, and he staggered back to his room, where he dropped heavily onto his bed and pulled his pillow over his head. His memories of the last month were still patchy, and in the quiet solitude of his room, old fears began to rear their heads. Had they done something to him when they took him?

No, that was the wrong thing to ask. _What_ had they done to him? Why did it still cling to him like a second skin, when he couldn’t even remember what had happened? He felt detached, one careful snip away from drifting out of his body. Every morning brought him closer to his limits, and he didn’t know how to pull himself back to solid ground. If it kept on like this, he was going to shatter.

He had to get away.

Something like panic reared its head at the thought, and he curled in on himself, nausea coiling around his gut. _They need you,_ whispered a voice in his head. _You can’t leave them._

But they didn’t. They’d proved that already. If he couldn’t get his damn head on straight here, then he’d have to go do it where a misstep wouldn’t start a chain reaction that might put the entire universe at risk.

He couldn’t keep lying to his friends. He couldn’t keep pretending that things were just the same as they’d always been, when every conversation felt like reading from a script written for a stranger. These people were his family, his _home—_ the only home he had left to him—so why did he feel so alone? Why did every smile, every compliment, every casual gesture, feel like he had to draw it out with forceps plunged into his chest? Why did every hug leave his skin itching for hours afterward?

He cared about the other paladins—didn’t he?

He didn’t know anymore.

* * *

“There it is.”

Shiro’s heart pounded in his ears. He’d been staring at the navigational display for five minutes already, and he wasn’t sure whether Matt had only just noticed the blip at the edge of the scanners that was the Castle of Lions, or if he’d been trying to exercise restraint and let Shiro come to grips with it in his own time.

He had to admit, he’d needed the push.

Pulling in a long breath through his nose, Shiro nodded. “We made it.”

“You ready for this?” Matt asked.

 _No._ “I’m ready.”

The Black Lion waited just ahead. Black and Keith and all the rest. Shiro’s family. _Home._

His mind quested outward automatically, searching for signs of Black at the edge of his awareness. Then he realized what he was doing and pulled back. The hairs along the back of his neck stood on end, and for a moment every light in the cockpit felt like an enemy’s weapon trained on Shiro’s head.

Matt breathed beside him. Just breathed. He sat perfectly still, and though he wasn’t staring at Shiro, his head was angled to the side, like every fiber was focused on Shiro’s emotional state.

 _You’re fine,_ Shiro told himself, screwing his eyes shut and forcing himself to breathe. _You’re here. You’re real. She won’t reject you._

The thought hadn’t left his head since Kolivan had brought it up yesterday. The Black Lion didn’t accept the Shiro currently on the Castle of Lions. Matt took it as proof that that Shiro was the clone—they’d talked about it at length during the eight hour trip here from the Blade of Marmora headquarters. Or… Matt had talked about it, at any rate. Shiro had remained largely tight-lipped, and he was pretty sure Matt knew why.

It didn’t matter. An hour from now, the question would be settled, one way or the other. Shiro would know, for certain, whether or not he was really himself.

He opened his eyes, and the fear slowly retreated. It lurked, as always, in the corners of his mind. A monster waiting for him to lose himself, waiting for the past to rear its ugly head. Waiting for the man he’d been in the Arena to return and take control.

Shiro wondered whether they’d made the switch even that early. Maybe the real Shiro had died the day he saved Matt. Maybe everything since had been a lie.

Maybe Shiro wasn’t himself, and never had been.

He supposed, in that case, he’d never know. The Black Lion had chosen the Champion, whoever he’d been to begin with, so she would surely take him back just the same.

Fingers brushed across the back of a hand that gripped the controls tight enough to dent the metal. Shiro didn’t feel the touch itself, only the way it disturbed the sleeve of his rebel outfit--more poncho than armor--and tugged at the fabric around his shoulders.

“It’s okay if you need a minute,” Matt said softly. “I’ve been there.”

Looking at him, Shiro knew it was the truth. He wondered whether Matt had ever doubted his own mind. Likely anyone in his situation would. Alone, captured by aliens, cut off from home? It seemed too horrific to be truth.

“I’m okay.” Shiro’s voice was hoarse, but he managed a smile. “I just want it to be done.”

Matt nodded, then turned to the comms array and cleared his throat. “Attention, Castle of Lions.” He paused, face scrunching up, then flipped one hand in the hair over his head as if to say, _Screw it._ “This is Matt Holt. I understand my sister is on your ship. I’d like to see her. Also...” His eyes slid to Shiro, and his lips quirked up in a smile. “I have someone here I think you’ll want to see.”

* * *

Time passed.

It was difficult to say how much, as Shiro couldn’t see his clock from where he lay. He’d contemplated getting up to check, but it didn’t strike him as important enough to bother. He’d found a strange sort of peace in deciding to leave. Or maybe peace wasn’t the right word. Maybe… calm. The calm in the eye of a hurricane, chaos and destruction all around but a column at the center that remained aloof.

The pressure to be who his friends thought he was had eased with the decision, and with it the anxiety that had been simmering in his bones for the last few days. And the idea of a few days of relative freedom and privacy brought—well, not quite joy, but an absence of distress, which was nearly the same thing. He just had to survive the next few hours. Or hide until tomorrow morning.

Hiding sounded good. Hiding took very little effort, and this week had been a steady drain on a very finite well of energy. That well was running dry now, and the only thing Shiro wanted to work at was shutting up the memories long enough to fall asleep. Maybe if he slept straight through the next fourteen hours he wouldn’t feel like such a wreck.

Someone knocked on his door.

Shiro meant to get up. He meant to cross to the door, open it, and greet his visitor like a leader—or at least like a soldier. His body, however, had other ideas, and so he lay there, staring at the ceiling, hands folded on his stomach, and tried to will himself to move.

“Shiro?” Hunk called through the door. “Are you in there?”

Shiro didn’t answer.

Light spilled across the bed as the door slid open. “Shiro?” Hunk whispered. “Shiro, can I come in? Is—is that okay, or…? Are you asleep? Oh, quiznak, sorry, Shiro. I’ll just--”

“I’m awake, Hunk,” Shiro said. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to Hunk, but neither was he sure he wanted Hunk to go, and there was still a part of him that couldn’t countenance lying to his team, even by omission.

He sat up slowly, the simple action sapping far more energy than it had any right to. Hunk stood silhouetted in the doorway, his eyes going wide as he got his first good look at Shiro.

“Holy crow, man. Are you okay? You look terrible!”

Shiro sighed, running his fingers through his hair. It was longer than it had been before, he thought, but he hadn’t spent a lot of time looking in the mirror since his time in the Arena. This was as close as he’d been able to come to recreating his usual look. Just one more bad counterfeit to add to his collection.

“Sorry,” Hunk said, cringing. He hesitated for a moment longer, then joined Shiro on the bed. “Seriously, though. You look like you’re having a rough day… Anything you wanna talk about?”

Shiro shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

A flash of irrational anger burned away the lethargy, and for the second time that day Shiro had to bite down on cutting words that seemed poised on the tip of his tongue like barbed arrows, ready to fly at the slightest provocation. He stood, crossing to the bathroom just to get away from Hunk's quiet compassion. _It’s not his fault. He’s just trying to help. He’s just doing what you’d be doing if you weren’t such a mess._

Shiro turned on the tap, splashed water on his face, then braced his hands on either side of the sink. “I’m fine, Hunk. Really.”

He heard footsteps approach, felt Hunk’s shadow fall over him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up.

“You don’t have to be.”

Shiro’s breath hitched. He lifted his head, but only far enough to meet his own eyes in the mirror. Hunk was right—he looked terrible. Red eyes shaded by dark, puffy circles, lines pulling at the corners of his eyes, furrows through hair that looked like it was three days overdue for a shower.

Hunk’s hand closed around Shiro’s forearm, warm but loose enough not to feel restricting. “Look, Shiro, none of us knows what you’re going through. Not really. But I mean, we’ve seen enough of what Zarkon does—what they did to _you_ the first time around—to have a pretty good idea. It’s a freaking miracle you held yourself together well enough to lead us when we all got thrown into this war, and then to go _back_?”

Tremors wracked Shiro’s body, and he snatched his arm away from Hunk, cradling it against his chest as he felt the weight of phantom shackles close around him.

“You’re allowed to not be okay, Shiro,” Hunk said. “I don’t know that we’ve ever told you that. We were all freaking out when this started, and we needed something steady. Maybe it was selfish of us to make that something be you, and you should know we’re all incredibly grateful for all you’ve done. But we’re getting better. We’re not just kids now, we’re paladins, and we’re all finding ways to be strong for each other. You shouldn’t feel like you have to be strong for our sake.”

Shiro’s head was spinning. He wavered, reaching down with his right hand to grab onto the sink and steady himself. No, he had to be strong for them. He had to--If he didn't have that, then what was left to him? Pain and regrets and nightmares crowding at his mind.

“Maybe Black isn’t responding to you because she knows you need a break,” Hunk said gently. Shiro wanted to tell him to stop, but he thought if he opened his mouth he might be sick. “After everything you’ve been through, Shiro? You deserve it. It doesn’t make you weak, and it won’t make us think any less of you.”

He didn’t understand. Shiro needed this. He needed someone to need him to be strong, because he didn’t know if he could be strong for himself. And if he let go, even for an instant, he would shatter—shatter into so many pieces he wasn’t sure he could ever put himself back together.

A sharp crack broke the silence in the bathroom, and Shiro stared down at his prosthetic hand, which had been gripping the edge of the sink. The porcelain had cracked beneath his grip, a spiderweb of fissures where his hand had been and a single, deep split all the way down to the drain.

Shiro backed away, guilt and shame clawing at his throat, and tried to stave off the panic attack he knew was coming. He was such a mess that he recognized the tightness in his chest and the way his lungs seemed to want to inhale and exhale simultaneously a full minute before he registered the tears in his eyes. He screwed his eyes shut and focused on breathing, but his thoughts were turning in circles, trying in vain to figure out the potent knot of emotions lodged in his chest. But for all the strength with which the emotion buffeted him, it was still muted, buried under a layer of snow: cold and still and numb.

He wasn’t sure he’d rather have this than the quiet apathy that had overtaken him earlier.

When he trusted himself to speak without bursting into tears, Shiro turned to face Hunk. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Hunk, but I just—I can’t.” _I can’t stay_ was what he’d meant to say, but the headache hit him halfway through, and his breath hissed out through his teeth.

Hunk took a step closer. “Shiro? What’s--?”

The intercom chimed at that moment, silencing Hunk’s concern, for which Shiro was grateful. Less welcome was Coran’s chipper voice, marred by an undercurrent of uncertainty.

“Paladins,” he said. “Meet me in the main hangar as soon as possible.”

Shiro was moving at once, pulling calm and control around himself like armor as he led Hunk out of the room and into the hallway. This floor was deserted, the other paladins off doing more productive things than wrestling with their own weakness, and it was a long, silent walk to the elevator, where Shiro and Hunk stood awkwardly side by side watching the numbers flash by on the display over the door.

“So what do you think this is about?” Hunk asked in the voice of someone trying too hard to fill an awkward silence.

Shiro didn’t have an answer for him.

Allura and Coran were waiting in the hangar when Hunk and Shiro arrived, and Shiro’s steps slowed as a small, beat-up shuttle cruised in through the open door and landed in the center of the large space. Tension hung in the air, unspoken but tangible. Even Hunk seemed to have sensed it, slowing to a stop halfway between Shiro and the Alteans, who had shot one brief glance his way before pointedly ignoring him.

Something was wrong. His head was pounding, the ground beneath him tilting like a ship about to capsize, and he was either going to puke, pass out, or run and run and never stop. Whoever was on that ship, he had a feeling he didn’t want to be here when they stepped off.

Too late.

The shuttle settled down thirty feet from the console where Allura and Coran stood conversing in hushed, frantic tones. As the metal popped and hummed in tune with the down-spinning engines, the ramp hissed and lowered itself to the floor.

The elevator chimed behind Shiro as two figures appeared at the top of the ramp, but Shiro’s mind seemed to have ground to a halt, outright refusing to process what he was seeing.

Impossible. It was impossible. It--

“What the _quiznak_?” Lance asked, his voice ringing loud through the sudden silence.

“That’s what I want to know.”

The Other strode down the ramp, footfalls sounding like thunder in Shiro’s ears, dark eyes fixed on Shiro and burning like black suns. _Impossible._ Keith had come forward, edging into Shiro’s periphery, and Shiro didn’t dare look at him. The small, confused sounds emanating from him—half-formed questions, aborted protests—were enough to drive spikes through Shiro’s heart, because--

_Impossible._

Impossible, but he felt like he should have seen this coming.

“Matt?” Pidge’s voice was small, frightened. Hopeful, but at the same time terrified like she thought what she was seeing might not be reality at all. “Matt, is that you?”

The second figured followed the Other down the ramp, shooting a dark glare Shiro’s way before continuing on to where Pidge had stalled out halfway across the hangar. He stopped short of her, wrapping his arms around himself as he glanced to the man beside him, who looked like granite brought to life.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Yeah, Katie. It’s me.”

Pidge’s face crumpled, and Shiro had to look away before she realized--

He had to get away, before any of them realized--

“Shiro?” Keith asked.

He was looking at the Other, and Shiro’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

 _Impossible._ Shiro finally met those too-familiar eyes, dark and guarded and unreadable as Shiro himself. Because it _was_ Shiro himself.

“It’s all right, Keith,” the Other said.

“There are _two_ of you,” Hunk said.

His shrill voice was an assault on Shiro’s nerves, but the Other barely flinched. Hunk turned, glancing past Shiro to the other paladins, who still stood frozen—even Pidge, who was blinking furiously as she stared from Shiro to the Other to her brother. Her hands were balled into fists as though to physically hold herself back from leaping at Matt.

“I’m not the only one seeing this, right?” Hunk asked. “You’re all seeing it, too, right? I’m not imagining this?”

“No, we’re all seeing this,” Lance said. “And I repeat: _What the quiznak?_ ”

“Haggar,” Matt said simply.

“But...” Hunk hesitated, his eyes falling on Shiro. “Which one of them is real?”

The words speared Shiro, burning a hole through his core. An accusation. An apology. He couldn’t tell if he was standing upright anymore, or if the ground had opened up beneath him to swallow him whole.

“I can’t tell you that,” the Other said solemnly. “But I think I know who can.” He paused, breathing deeply, and the fear darkened the edges of Shiro’s vision. “Let’s go see the Black Lion.”


	5. Memories

Shiro’s hands were shaking as he followed the Other into the Black Lion’s hangar.

_The Other._

He kept thinking of him that way, this duplicate Shiro. (If he _was_ the duplicate.) The headache was back, slamming against the base of Shiro’s skull like a wave hammering against stone, and all he wanted to do was turn tail and run. He was an imposter, a fake, a plant—he must be, because he remembered being so much more than this before waking up in that Galra prison for the second time in his life. Haggar was behind this, or someone like her, which must mean that Shiro—the clone—had been sent here for some nefarious purpose.

The thought made Shiro sick, and he had to fight himself not to stop where he was and let the others go on without him. Once they knew the truth, he was as good as dead, anyway. Maybe if he left now, he could get away before the other paladins realized what had happened.

He didn’t go. Instead, he followed the Other along familiar corridors to the Black Lion’s hangar, heart breaking for every resentful glower Matt sent his way, for every one of Hunk’s nervous glances, for the whispers passing between Pidge and Lance and the way Keith was keeping pace with Matt and the Other—not talking, just staring, like he could look beneath the skin and see the truth in the Other that had been lacking in Shiro.

He told himself he went because there was a chance that _this_ was the trick—that Haggar’s clone had come not to slip in under the radar but to shatter the team with confusion and chaos. If Matt had been duped, if the others were even now facing down an enemy wearing Shiro’s face, he _had_ to be here to protect them.

But he wasn’t that good at lying to himself. He knew, if he was being honest, that the only reason he hadn’t already fled was because he needed to _know_. He needed to know for sure that he was a living lie before he threw in the towel.

They came too soon to the hangar, and Shiro stopped at the door. The Other continued on. Did anyone else see the hesitation that suddenly entered his step? The way doubt tugged at the corner of his mouth, minutely deepening a frown that still managed to look somewhat like determination instead of raw terror? Did Matt see the same desperation that had taken up residence beneath Shiro’s skin on the day they’d been taken to the Arena? Did Keith see the hope and fear and anticipation that was several times over what had kept him up all night before the announcement of the crew for the Kerberos mission?

Did Black see it, through her shield, or was the Other just as much a stranger to her as Shiro was?

The Other’s feet carried him to the edge of Black’s barrier, and he lifted a hand, hesitating with his fingertips a hair from the glowing shield. Shiro’s heart had taken up residence in his throat, cutting off his air, and he waited for the guillotine to fall. The Other would touch the barrier—just a feather’s touch, and the shield would come down, and everyone would know Shiro for what he was.

A fraud.

A fake.

A failure.

He supposed he wouldn’t be able to call himself Shiro anymore—but who was he if not Shiro? What was he, once you stripped away all these memories that belonged to someone else?

He took a step backwards, waiting only for the curtain to fall before he fled, but suddenly Coran was there with a hand on his arm and a small frown—not a threat, not quite, but a clear command to stay where he was.

Shiro’s eyes flickered back to Black.

The Other pressed his palm against the barrier. It rippled, waves of soft black light falling on the floor.

The lion lifted her head, a dim glow in her eyes, but the barrier did not come down. She turned, and for an instant Shiro could have sworn she looked at him.

A flicker, like sun reflecting off snow, and a gasp. The Other Shiro’s eyes widened as his body lit up with a fluid layer of magenta light that flaked off him in little motes that drifted upward, like embers rising from a campfire.

For just an instant, the two Shiros’ eyes met, and a haze of purple washed over Shiro’s vision as the same glow enveloped him. He saw the Other’s form grow indistinct, saw the folds of Matt’s cloak through his shoulder.

Then… nothing.

* * *

 _The hall was empty and quiet, just a row of blank lockers and a banner over a set of double doors that read_ CHS Varsity Football State Champions. _A number of years were printed below, with a generous stretch of blank fabric left open for future victories. It was a rather optimistic allowance, considering the last date was already eight years in the past._

_Shiro sat at a table with Chloe, an engineering student from the Garrison. She was two years younger than him, just entering her last year of Basic and not yet jaded by a slew of recruitment drives that attracted mostly nerdy kids whose keen interest in space dropped off when they realized just how much emphasis the Garrison put on physical conditioning and combat training._

_Almost as bad were the others—bullies and jocks with more ego than brains who brushed off the heavy science requirements as optional and asked how soon they’d be flying to Jupiter._

_Shiro checked his watch—two minutes till the bell—and settled back in his chair as Chloe straightened the flyers and pamphlets and cheap, shitty key chains they’d brought along to entice impressionable young high school students to apply for the academy. He remembered being like her, so eager to introduce others to the wonders of space exploration and scientific research. He’d actually volunteered for the recruitment tour once upon a time, his head filled up with images of starry-eyed teens hanging on his every word, then seeking him out a year or two later when they enrolled and started on the path to their dream jobs._

_The sad reality of recruitment had sapped all his enthusiasm out in the last two years. With ten high schools on his route, a spring and a fall stop at each, and more dick jokes and bad sci-fi references than genuine interest, he was just ready to be done with it all._

_Chloe elbowed him in the side as the clock blinked one minute closer to the end of the day. “Smile, Shiro,” she said. “Act like you enjoy your job, why don’t you?”_

“ _Oh, I enjoy my job,” he said, stretching his arms over his head. “Turns out I just hate teenagers.”_

 _Chloe laughed, straightening her orange uniform jacket nervously. “You’re_ twenty-one _. You don’t have room to talk.”_

“ _I am a certified adult,” Shiro protested with a smirk. “And this time next year, I’ll be done with SpecTra and in the cockpit of a_ real _ship. I’ve just got to survive two more tours of hell and I’ll be golden.”_

_With a snort, Chloe knocked Shiro’s feet off the table, forcing him to sit up. “Does Iverson know you’re like this on recruitment day?”_

“ _He’s heard rumors, but I don’t think he believes them. Takashi Shirogane? The Golden Child of the Galaxy Garrison? I’d_ never _make a mockery of the uniform.” Shiro huffed out a laugh as the bell sounded. “Damn my reputation. If Iverson didn’t think so highly of me, I’d have been taken out of this rotation ages ago.”_

_Chloe snorted. “Please. Like Iverson cares about the drives.”_

_Shiro’s brows rose. The sound of footsteps were echoing down the hall, the chatter of students and whoops of laughter falling over them like a blanket. “You have_ no _idea,” he said. Then, before Chloe could answer, Shiro turned, pasting a small, confident smile on his face just in time to greet the first trickle of students that came through to door into the atrium._

_Most, of course, sped right past the table, too busy complaining about tests and making plans for the evening to pay attention to the Garrison table or the entirely-too-eager Chloe standing out in front trying to flag people down._

_He felt bad for her. Really he did. Especially when she decided to try to play hall monitor with a couple of roughhousing students who couldn’t have been more than a year her junior. Say what you will about pseudo-military training and how it forced cadets to mature faster than their peers in public school. All these kids saw was a wiry girl in funny clothes standing two inches shorter than either of the boys edging toward a fistfight._

_There were some catcalls from the crowd, some rude comments and shouts for Chloe to watch her_ pretty little face. _Shiro, who had been stepping forward—albeit reluctantly—to break up the fight, stopped short. He saw the look of cold fury on Chloe’s face, and he knew better than to get in the way._

_In one smooth motion, she’d turned one of the offenders around, pinning his arm in the small of his back. She grabbed the other’s fist as he tried to throw one last cheap shot, her uniform straining as the grapple put her not-inconsiderable musculature on display._

“ _You wanna try this from the top, boys?” she asked sweetly. “Or should I get the principle involved?”_

 _Shiro was too busy smiling into his hand at her display (also_ not  _something Iverson would approve of)_ _to notice the second miniature tornado headed his way—at least, not until a short, wiry boy slammed into him. Shiro took a single step to save his balance, reaching out automatically to catch the boy. He must have been a freshman, and that was being generous, because he looked closer to twelve than fourteen._

_Snarling, he pushed stringy black hair out of his eyes and lunged for the person who had shoved him. Shiro tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder before he could do something unfortunate._

“ _Hey, now,” Shiro said. “Why don’t you slow down for just a second?”_

_The kid whirled, fire in his eyes, his fists still raised, like he might decide to redirect his anger at Shiro if he couldn’t go after whoever it was that had pushed him. “You wanna go?”_

_Shiro blinked. The kid had guts, he’d give him that. Five-two and barely a hundred pounds, and he was ready to tackle Shiro, who was a foot taller and twice his weight. “To the hospital?” Shiro asked dryly. “Cause I don’t see this ending up in a good place for you.”_

_The kid scowled, but he dropped his gaze to the floor._

_Shiro frowned at him, then scanned the crowd for signs of other instigators. Whoever had shoved his kid was long gone, it seemed, for no one spared him a second glance as they raced for the doors. Chloe, similarly, had cleared up her little tussle and was now talking animatedly with a small group of students who would snatch up whatever pamphlets Chloe offered, then shove them in a drawer somewhere and forget all about the Garrison and its program._

_Honestly, though, what did they expect? The academy mainly accepted high school sophomores and juniors; none of these kids knew what the hell they wanted to do with their life yet._

_Well, except Shiro, but he’d been obsessed with flying since he was a toddler, and he had the added benefit of being a commercial pilot’s son. Early exposure and all that._

_The kid Shiro was still holding by the arm shifted, testing Shiro’s grip._

“ _What was that all about, anyway?” Shiro asked. “Someone bullying you?”_

“No _,” the kid said at once. Shiro wouldn’t quite call it sullen, but it sounded like it was trying too hard not to be. “Just some asshole. He doesn’t like that I won’t look him in the eye.”_

_Shiro blinked, but now that the kid mentioned it, he had kept his gaze on the floor almost from the outset. “Is there a reason you won’t look at him?”_

“ _Because it’s stupid and I don’t have to do what he says?”_

“ _Huh. I… honestly don’t know what to say to that.”_

_A smile flickered across the kid’s face, gone as soon as it had come. “So are you gonna let me go or what?”_

_Shiro released him, but called out before he could sprint off. “Hey, kid. What’s your name?”_

“ _Keith,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”_

_Shiro smiled and tossed a pamphlet at him. “Because I’m supposed to talk to at least twenty kids about the Garrison today. It’s stupid, but I have to do what they say.”_

_Surprise sparked in Keith’s eyes as he looked up at Shiro suddenly, then down at the pamphlet in his hands. He smiled again, waved the pamphlet at Shiro, then turned and headed for the doors. “Sucks to be you!”_

* * *

Shiro stood on a sea of stars, his head tilted back to follow the violet stripe overhead, reminiscent of the Milky Way. He knew at once where he was, the last remnants of the memory rolling off him like raindrops.

The astral plane.

The place where he’d fought Zarkon for the Black Lion’s freedom, where their bond had deepened to something that resonated with his very soul. He breathed in, letting the tension spool out of him as he felt her all around him. So Matt had been right; he _was_ real.

A twinge of sorrow ruffled the surface of the water around him, disrupting the reflection of stars, and the brief moment of weightlessness ended. He looked down and found himself—his clone—standing nearby, watching with sad eyes.

“I knew it,” he said. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew—as soon as I saw you, I knew.”

Shiro frowned. “You mean you didn’t know before?”

The clone bowed his head. A cloud of stars expanded around him, another appearing around Shiro. It felt like walking through the holomap on the castleship, all these little pinpricks of light arrayed around him, moving _with_ him as he turned toward the other man. They seemed no more than pinpricks, but when he looked at them he saw his life, mapped out in crystallized moments, moments like the day he’d first met Keith.

The stars around the clone were identical, but Shiro found his attention drawn to a small cluster near the clone’s breastbone. These stars were different from the ones around Shiro. His showed him the last few days, traveling the universe with Matt. The clone’s memories were darker, showing pain and confusion and despair and guilt.

“I had no idea,” the clone said.

Their eyes met, and they plunged back into the past.

* * *

“ _Do you ever just...miss hell week?”_

_Shiro stared blankly at his calculator for a long while, trying to make the eldritch sigils on the screen turn back into numbers, before he looked at Matt. “I wish I could say I didn’t, but I think I’d rather be running ten miles a day than trying to get Quantum to make sense.”_

_Matt jabbed the butt of his pencil at Shiro in agreement, then pulled off his glasses and sighed. “Six more months of this,” he muttered. “Six months and we’re free.”_

“ _Free or dead.” Shiro shut his Quantum Mechanics textbook with a snap that sounded too loud in the quiet library. Not that he had the mental resources left to care. It was still November, but his classes were already gearing up for finals, which meant constant quizzes, labs, and presentations on top of their usual homework._

“ _Did you see they opened applications for the Kerberos mission?” Matt asked. He had that look in his eye, the one that had gotten Shiro into more trouble than he cared to admit over the past six years. They’d been in the same class for Basic Training, but it was only last year, when they started Specialized Training, or SpecTra, that they’d started rooming together—and increased exposure to the human disaster that was Matt Holt had sent Shiro’s flawless record into a tailspin._

 _The antics_ had _kept him from cracking under the pressure, though. Shiro would give him that much._

“ _I saw,” Shiro said slowly._

 _Matt propped his chin in his hand. “And…_ ? _”_

“ _We haven’t even graduated, Matt.”_

“ _We will have by the time they select the crew.” Matt leaned over, reaching for his backpack. “Look, I brought a copy of the posting. I really think--”_

“ _So how does this work?”_

_Shiro gave a start as a short, hooded figure appeared quite suddenly in the seat next to him. Matt’s head popped up over the edge of the table, and he glanced from the newcomer to Shiro, a hundred questions burning behind his eyes._

“ _Keith?” Shiro asked, staring at the kid, who gave no sign that he understood how unusual it was for him to suddenly appear in the Garrison library unannounced. To be at the Garrison_ at all. _The campus was closed to visitors except on family days. And how had he even made it out here from the city? The Garrison wasn’t exactly on the bus routes. “What are you doing here?”_

_Keith scowled at him. “Asking you a question. Are you going to answer?”_

_Shiro blinked. Across the table, Matt was laughing softly, craning his neck to look for faculty members who might notice the one person on campus who wasn’t in uniform. “I—uh—how does_ what _work?”_

“ _This.” Keith waved a rumpled pamphlet under Shiro’s nose. “The office said you wouldn’t be back till the spring, but if I waited, I wouldn’t have time to work on my application.”_

Application? _Shiro stared down at the pamphlet—the same one he’d given Keith that day at CHS. Of all the people he’d talked to, Shiro had to admit_ Keith _was the last one he’d pegged as actually pursuing his (nonexistent) interest._

“ _You want to get into the academy?”_

 _Keith looked at him like he’d just asked whether he needed oxygen to live. “Well, if I stay_ _where I am I’ll probably burn the school to the ground before graduation.”_

“ _Noted,” Shiro said, a smile tugging at his lips. “But I’d advise not putting that on your application. Arson and rocket fuel don’t mix.”_

_Matt leaned forward, cupping a hand around his mouth as though to shield his next words from Shiro. “It’s okay. I can show you how to make fireworks in the chem lab.”_

“ _Matt!” Shiro spluttered as Keith let out a bark of surprised laughter. “Are you_ trying _to get expelled?”_

“ _Hey, I’ll have graduated by the time he starts. They won’t be able to touch me.” Matt leaned back, clearly satisfied with himself, and beamed at Keith. “Are you gonna need a ride back into town? Cause I might be able to convince my dad not to hand you over to Iverson for trespassing.”_

_Keith just smiled. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got my own ride.”_

_Shiro frowned at him. “_ _Your_ own _ride? How old are you?”_

“ _Just turned fifteen,” Keith said. His gaze landed on the table and stayed there, his hands fiddling with the sleeves of his hoodie. “It’s, uh. It’s okay though. I’ve—I got permission. To take it and stuff. It’s not_ stolen. _”_

_Shiro wasn’t sure he wanted to know what kinds of trouble this kid usually got up to if he felt the need to assure a couple of strangers that he hadn’t stolen a car to come sneak onto government property for advice on school applications._

_But Keith seemed to be a pretty good kid, and he_ was _genuinely interested in the academy. Arguably more interested than anyone else Shiro had ever handed that pamphlet to. None of_ them _had ever risked jail time for a follow-up._

“ _Okay,” Shiro said, pushing his homework aside. “What do you want to know?”_

* * *

Shiro blinked as the image of Keith’s smile faded. It had been too long since he’d seen that smile. It was sharper-edged now, compacted by loss and fear and the stress of war. It was good to remember a time when life had been less complicated.

When his vision cleared, he was standing back in the astral plane, his clone watching him with something like envy in his eyes. The galaxies reappeared in the air around them, memory-stars glowing more brightly now. Thin luminous fibers trailed from Shiro’s stars to his skin like veins or roots. A glance at the clone showed that his memories roots faded to vapor inches from his skin—except for that small, burning constellation of pain. Those roots bled crimson, twining around the clone’s fingers like the evidence of a murder.

Shiro opened his mouth to ask if he was alright, then hesitated. “Do you have a name?”

The clone laughed weakly. “Only yours.”

“Yeah. Stupid question.” Shiro sighed, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. In this space, the metal of his prosthetic was warmer and softer than it should have been, so he could almost forget what he’d lost. “I don’t know why Black brought us here, but… I need to call you something.” He paused, waiting for the clone to speak. “How about Kuron?”

A flash of dark humor reached him, sliding over his skin like a breeze that made his stomach clench. The clone smiled, his eyes bleak. “You want to go that route, do you? Call me what they made me into? Is that it, _Champion?_ ”

Shiro flinched, the lights around him flickering, confronting him with fractured memories of his time in the Arena. “Sorry,” he said, scrounging for another name.

“Don’t,” the clone said. He sat, water lapping at his ankles as the memory lights shone brighter. “It suits me.”

* * *

“ _Damn it, Kogane, get your head out of your ass! You want someone to stroke your ego, go find your momma, ‘cause that ain’t my job!”_

“ _Oh, shit,” Matt muttered, stopping beside Shiro. The hallway was packed, dozens of cadets craning their necks to get a look at the confrontation happening outside the simulator room. Keith stood glaring at the ground, his hands balled into fists as Iverson gave one of his signature tongue-lashings. Nearly everyone had been subject to the commander’s temper at one point or another during their academy career, but somehow it never inspired much sympathy in the onlookers. They were too busy delighting in the drama of it._

_Shiro winced as Iverson charged deeper into his rant, berating Keith for—what? Unauthorized simulator usage? Getting into a fight with another cadet? The way Iverson was carrying on, Shiro would have expected half the school to be leveled, but this wasn’t the first time he’d heard whispers of Keith’s discipline issues, and they’d never been anything that warranted a production like this. At least, Keith’s version of events had always been fairly tame, and Shiro was inclined to trust him. The kid might be surly and spoiling for a fight, but he was honest to a fault._

_That, and he sucked at lying._

“ _When do you think he’ll learn to keep his head down?” Matt whispered, watching with visible second-hand embarrassment as Keith squirmed. He looked about two seconds from either melting into the floor or punching Iverson in the face, and the fact that Shiro couldn’t tell which path Keith’s frustration would take worried him._

_Grimacing, he quickened his pace, brushing past the ring of watching students and clapping his hands. “All right, cadets,” he barked. “Enough gawking. Get to class, all of you.”_

_Matt trailed after Shiro as he approached Keith and Iverson, who had broken off his lecture at Shiro’s interruption. Keith looked up at Shiro, wide-eyed. A crimson flush raced across his cheeks before he ducked his head again, crossing his arms as he glared a hole in the floor._

“ _Sorry,” Shiro said, flashing his most charming smile at Iverson. “We were on our way to talk to Commander Holt about Kerberos prep. Everything okay here?”_

_Iverson shot a dark look at Keith, who huffed but said nothing._

“ _Cadet Kogane here thinks he’s better than the rest of his training group is all,” Iverson finally said. “Doesn’t think the rules apply to him.”_

_Keith’s head shot up. “That’s not--”_

“ _Quiet, cadet!” Iverson roared. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”_

_Keith clenched his jaw, but held his tongue. Shiro had seen this kind of pent-up anger in cadets before, but never this strong. Some people just didn’t adjust well to the authoritarian culture of the Garrison, and Keith in particular seemed not to know when to give up the fight._

“ _That’s unfortunate,” Shiro said lightly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But, come on Mitch. You’ve got enough on your plate already. We both know you hate dealing with shi—uh,_ things _like this.”_

“ _So, what?” Iverson demanded. “You expect me to let this brat have the run of the place?” He gestured sharply to Keith, who was glaring again, a vein in his jaw standing out like the last thread of his patience._

_Shiro placed a hand on his shoulder before he snapped. “No,” he said. “Actually, I was thinking I could take over. Show Keith how things are done around here. Help him… adjust.”_

_Iverson stared at him, brow furrowed. “What the hell would you do that for?”_

“ _Generosity,” Shiro said. “Gets him out of your hair, saves him the lecture.”_

“ _And you’ll take responsibility for his behavior moving forward?”_

_Shiro glanced at Keith, who watched him with a breathless sort of awe. Shiro squeezed his shoulder, smiling. “Yes, sir. Do we have a deal?”_

_After another moment of indecision, Iverson flicked a hand dismissively. “Do whatever you want. But one more incident like today and Kogane won’t be the only one losing a chunk of hide.”_

“ _Understood.” Shiro smiled as Iverson marched off, then turned and met Matt’s incredulous stare. “What?”_

_Matt held up his hands. “I didn’t say anything.” He glanced at Keith, then backed away. “I’m gonna go find Dad before he sends out a search party.”_

“ _Right behind you,” Shiro said. He waited for Matt to leave, then raised an eyebrow at Keith, who looked like he might have burst if he’d kept quiet for a minute longer._

“ _Why’d you do that?”_

_Shiro gave him a light shove, chuckling to himself. “I’m the one who dragged you here, aren’t I? I’m not just going to let you get kicked out." He paused, flashing a lopsided smile. "It’s a matter of pride at this point, and I think we both know I’m an egomaniac.”_

_Keith crossed his arms, fighting down the smile Shiro could see playing at his lips. “You’re going to regret this.”_

_Shiro tilted his head to the side. “Will I?” He shrugged. “If you say so. Until then, I expect to see you in the Green. Every night an hour before dinner call. I mean to see you top of your class, cadet. But I’m going to need you to work with me. You think you’re up for that?”_

_Keith straightened up, squaring his shoulders. New determination hardened his face, and Shiro could see the fire in his eyes. He didn’t shy away from Shiro’s expectations; he warmed to them. Here was someone starving for the chance to make someone proud. Iverson was wrong about this kid. He didn’t need lectures and punishments. He just needed someone willing to give him a chance._

_And god damn it all, but Shiro was going to be that someone._

* * *

“Why are you showing me this?” Kuron screamed into the void. Shiro wavered in the echoes for an instant before settling fully into his body, and he turned, tensing as he saw his clone.

Kuron had regained his footing, his pants soaked to the knees. Water droplets glittered like stars as he stalked the shallow sea, kicking up waves wherever he passed. They settled quickly—unnaturally so; just five feet from Kuron, the water showed no more than a ripple. By Shiro, it was perfectly still, undisturbed by Kuron’s rage.

“ _Why?_ ” Kuron tipped his head back, staring into the night sky. “Answer me!”

_**You want.** _

The voice came from all around, startling Shiro with its clarity. It wasn’t the silent impulse he’d felt before when he’d connected with his lion. This was a voice as real as any other, though Shiro couldn’t say whether he heard it in the air or only in his head.

Kuron obviously heard it too, for he faltered, looking around himself. His eyes were wild and wide with fear. He looked how Shiro imagined he looked when he was teetering on the edge of a flashback, his breath coming quick and shallow, his prosthetic hand flexing like only threadbare self-control kept him from igniting its plasma glow.

“No,” Kuron said. “I don’t—These—These aren’t my memories. This _isn't my life!_ I know that, okay? I _know_ I’m not your paladin; you don’t have to keep shoving it in my face!”

“Hey,” Shiro said, hands up in a soothing gesture, but Kuron rounded on him.

“Shut up. I don’t want your pity.”

_**You care.** _

Kuron’s breath caught. His eyes, no longer burning with scarcely concealed fury, misted over, and he screwed his eyes shut. “Of course I _care._ You’re _taunting_ me!”

 _**No.** _ A series of memories flashed rapid-fire past Shiro’s eyes. Keith, sitting beside him in the Green, staring up at him with excitement and determination. Matt, weightless in the pool they used to practice maneuvering in zero gravity, grinning as he steadied himself with a hand on either of Shiro’s arms. Pidge, nestled between the Green Lion’s paws, an explosion of bot parts scattered around her. Hunk, face streaked with flour and green paste, beaming as he flourished a tray of his new space cakes. Lance, restless, rifle in hand and the remains of training drones all around, looking to Shiro with cautious pride and a hopeful smile on his face. Allura and Coran, laughing as they showed the new paladins scenes from their homeworld.

_**You. Care.** _

Kuron slashed a hole in the slew of memories, leaving Shiro dazed and disoriented as the stars reasserted their presence. He turned to Kuron, who was pacing again, his face distorted in a rigor of distress. The final image—Shiro and Matt sitting too close in the cockpit of the _Persephone_ , a blush dusting both their noses—hung between them, half-seen, and Shiro would have to be willfully dense not to see the open longing on his clone’s face.

An ache had taken up residence in Shiro’s chest, and he wasn’t sure how much of it was sympathy, how much the strange halfway empathy that existed between them in this space.

Kuron lifted his head, his eyes catching Shiro’s and holding.

_Pain._

_A hammering in his head._

_Blisters on his wrists, on his ankles. Raw, broken skin where he’d fought against their shackles._

_The witch, Haggar, bent over him, her fingers splayed on either side of his head, fingernails biting into him in a crescent around his temples._

“ _Find them,” she whispered in his ear. “Break them.”_

_Then, Allura. Allura on the day he’d first met her, sending a miniature hologram of the Black Lion toward him with a swipe of her hand._

_ "The Black Lion is the decisive head of Voltron," she said. "It will take a pilot who is a born leader and in control at all times." _

Shiro blinked, and it was once more Kuron who stood before him, his lips parted in sudden understanding. The memory reverberated in the silence around them, and Shiro searched for something to say to make this better. He could feel Kuron’s thoughts beating at him—distant, but still sharp enough to wound.

He was broken. Weak. A worthless pawn who couldn’t even do what he’d been created to do.

No--worse. A series of images flashed through Shiro's mind, rapid-fire. Allura's face, pinched with uncertainty and concern. Pidge, restless with fragile hope, deflating as she stared at an image of Matt's face. Hunk reaching out, tears in his eyes, looking lost and young and powerless. Lance curled around himself, sobbing in the shadow of the Black Lion. Keith. His eyes flashing hurt before he shut himself off, the same way he did whenever Iverson tore into him--only it wasn't Iverson berating him now. It was Shiro.

"I did exactly what she made me for," Kuron whispered. His horror loomed up in Shiro's mind, a shadow that dimmed the stars all around them. "They needed me--they needed _you_ , and I--Oh, _god._ "

Shiro surged forward, one hand out to catch Kuron’s wrist, but the water beneath Kuron suddenly iced over, flashed once, and turned as clear and smooth as glass. Kuron’s expression hardened, the mental link between him and Shiro going abruptly opaque.

"I broke them."

The glass around Kuron shattered.

It was like a hole had been torn in the astral plane, light leaking through the crack—light and voices. Someone was calling Shiro's name, sending currents of violet terror and silver agony spiraling up into the night sky.

Dread filled Shiro. Dread for Kuron, and for what he might do if he’d made it back into the physical world. The Black Lion rumbled reassurances in Shiro’s core, and he breathed her presence in.

They would stop him.

They had no choice.


	6. Survival

Kuron stood once more in the Black Lion’s hangar, blinking in the harsh lights. They were too bright after the darkness of the astral plane, the panicked voices of his friends—Shiro’s friends—grated on his nerves.

Hands reached out to grab him, and he flinched away. He didn’t know if the hands meant to restrain him or to support him, and he honestly wasn’t sure which would have hurt more. He didn’t want to be their enemy. He didn’t deserve their concern.

“Takashi!”

Matt’s voice cut through the confusion, and Kuron looked up, squinting against the light as his headache took up residence once more at the base of his skull. Matt knelt beside Shiro, who had dropped to his knees sometime during the field trip to the astral plain. He pressed a hand to his forehead, smiled at Matt, then met Kuron’s eyes across the hangar.

No one else had moved from where they’d been when Shiro first placed his hand on the Black Lion’s barrier, and Kuron had to wonder how much time had passed. It had seemed like at least an hour, but…

His speculation trailed off as he realized one more thing had changed: Black’s barrier was gone.

Kuron couldn’t help the stab of betrayal that hit him at the sight, though he knew there was no cause for it. How could she have betrayed him when he’d never been her paladin to begin with?

The other paladins had noticed Black’s verdict by now, too. It was no longer just Matt who looked at Kuron with something frighteningly close to hatred in his eyes. Allura, too, was on edge, and Keith’s expression, though tightly controlled, spoke of distrust. Pidge, Hunk, and Lance didn’t look ready to attack him—yet—but they’d closed ranks around their Shiro, feet spread for balance. The paladins were all still dressed in their armor after the day’s training, and both Keith and Allura held their bayards—not yet active, but enough of a warning to freeze the blood in Kuron’s veins.

“That proof enough for you?” Matt asked with false cheer. He helped Shiro stand, then pulled out a staff from behind his back and hit a button to extend it from twelve inches to nearly four feet. “Who sent you?”

“I don’t know,” Kuron said. His head pounded, his chest ached for air he couldn’t seem to pull in. His prosthetic arm whined as its internal mechanisms tried to start up, and he wrestled for control. He wouldn’t fight them. He _wouldn’t_. If he could just get back to the hangar where the shuttle had landed, he could get out of here.

Shiro placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder, pulling him back. “Wait,” he said. “I think Haggar implanted fake memories. He really thought he was me.”

Lance looked to Shiro, then back at Kuron. “So… he really is a clone?” The indicator lights on his thigh began to glow, a warning that he was near to summoning his bayard.

Kuron backpedaled, his field of vision narrowing to those glowing lights. Memories—stolen memories—crowded his head, burrowing into his mind like choking vines that blotted out all else. He had to get out of here, had to go, had to defend himself. They weren’t going to kill him. Not this time. Not ever. He had people waiting for him--

His back hit something warm and solid, and rational thought fled.

He was in the Arena, blinding lights watching him from above. Blood and the roar of the crowd echoed in his ears, wrapped him up in a cocoon of sound, pulled him deep beneath the surface of fear. Enemies surrounded him, penned him in, their gazes feverish with anticipation.

Flashing swords. Ripping teeth. Blood on his hands, in is eyes, in his mouth. Heat. Pain.

He broke into a sprint, running for the open doors on the far side of the Arena that led back into the staging area. It was not _safety;_ nothing on this ship was safety for a prisoner, but the Galra never let anyone take weapons off the sand. If he made it there, he would at least stand a chance. Alone, outnumbered, and injured (injured? He had to be injured, or why did it feel like someone was driving a paint scraper into his brain?) he had no other hope of survival. He just had to get past them all. He just had to be good enough.

His foot caught on a rock as he sprinted for his salvation, and he stumbled, hands flying out to catch himself. There was a faint purple aura around his right hand, not bright enough to be called light, and he felt the impact in his shoulder when his hand met the hard-packed sand beneath him.

Something grabbed him by the elbow. _Danger!_ his mind screamed. _Enemy! Kill them! Too late—too late—too_ _**late!** _

He moved with the speed and decisiveness that had kept him alive through a year of bloodsport, ducking out from the grasping hand. He spun, grabbing his foe’s wrist in his left hand. He turned them around, bending their arm behind them, pushing their hand toward the ceiling as their momentum carried them to the ground. Muscles strained under his hold, and he knew if he pushed a few inches further, the bone would snap as easily as a bundle of raw spaghetti.

His right hand blazed with light as he brought it to bear against his opponent’s neck.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered.

“ _Keith!_ ”

His own voice, ragged with emotion, shattered the illusion, and Kuron looked up. He seemed to fall out of himself at the sight of the hangar, of the paladins—of _himself—_ ranged around him, weapons in hand. The scent of charred flesh—too familiar after so many battles with Haggar’s prosthetic as his only weapon—burned his nose.

He looked down, and found Keith kneeling at his feet, angry red blisters painting his neck where Kuron’s hand hovered.

_A scrawny, angry boy, full of fire and pride._

_A troublemaker who dreamed of a better life for himself._

_A cadet, eager to please but afraid to trust._

_His friend. His_ brother.

Keith let out a strangled cry of pain as Kuron’s hand burned him again, and a flash of red in his periphery told him Lance had taken aim.

 _**You care,** _ the Black Lion had said. And he did.

Bile rising in his throat, Kuron released Keith and backed away, holding up his hands in a feeble defense. His mouth opened to beg for mercy, but his voice didn’t come. What could he say? What possible reason could he give them to trust him?

Resignation coiled around his throat, and he lowered his hands, staring down at Keith where he sat breathing heavily, his arm tucked against his stomach, his throat an angry red.

“I’m sorry,” Kuron whispered.

A flash of movement beside him. He turned, locked gazes with Matt, and closed his eyes as Matt’s staff slammed into the side of his head.

Then… nothing.

* * *

Shiro watched his clone collapse, his face slack. It was the first time Shiro had seen the man look truly at peace. Matt kept his staff trained on the clone’s limp form even as he backed toward Keith.

“You okay there, pyro?” Matt asked.

Keith stared up at him, lips pursed in the same pout he’d worn so often at the Garrison, when Matt had taken every opportunity to tease Keith about his impulsiveness and his affinity for all things combustible. “Fine,” Keith grunted, standing on wobbling legs. “I see you’re the same asshole you always were.”

Matt grinned, and Keith rested his hand on Matt’s shoulder for a moment before dropping it to his side and summoning his bayard.

“So what do we do with the clone?” Keith asked.

In answer, Lance and Pidge raised their bayards. Shiro saw determination in their eyes. Determination and disgust that hurt more than they could have known.

“Wait!” Shiro cried. He surged forward, though his head was still spinning from his trip to the astral plane. He was too far back, and he knew if any of them wanted to kill Kuron, he wouldn’t be able to stop them.

They wouldn’t though. He had to believe they were better than that. To kill an unconscious enemy? That was the sort of thing Zarkon did, not Shiro's friends. Not the paladins of Voltron. They were better than that.

(Still he had to wonder whether any of them saw a person when they looked at Kuron, or only a weapon crafted by the Galra to strike at the heart of their enemy.)

Keith tensed, his face contorting in fury, and Shiro flung out a hand.

Black’s barrier descended in a flash, slicing through the space between Kuron and the paladins, enveloping the clone in the strongest protection she could give. Shiro’s eyes burned as she purred at him, the sound pure affection resounding in his head.

 _ **He is not my paladin,**_ she told him, her voice wrapping around Shiro like a warm breeze, _**but he is my cub. I will watch him. Help them see.  
**_

_Thank you,_ Shiro told her. He took advantage of the shock that had overtaken his friends and planted himself in front of Matt and Keith, his hands up in a placating gesture. The barrier behind him hummed, but he glanced over his shoulder anyway, holding his breath until he was sure that Kuron’s chest still rose and fell in steady rhythm.

 _I’ll fix this,_ Shiro promised his clone. _I swear I’ll find a way to fix this for you._

With a deep, shuddering breath, Shiro turned back to his friends, meeting each startled gaze in turn. “Wait,” he said again. “Please.”

“Shiro,” Keith said. “What are you doing?”

Shiro’s mouth ran dry, but he forced himself to speak.  _Help them see,_ Black had said. Shiro wasn't sure if he could--but he had to try _._ “Just—wait. Before you do something you can’t take back. Give him a chance.”

Hunk had been holding his bayard halfheartedly, and he now lowered it fully, considering Shiro’s words. “He _did_ try to impersonate you, Shiro.”

“He didn’t know any better,” Shiro insisted. “I told you, when Haggar made him, she gave him my memories. He didn’t know he was a clone any more than the rest of you.”

“Are you certain?” Allura asked. “If he came from Haggar, there's no telling the kind of damage he could do. Are you willing to risk all our lives by giving him a chance?”

Shiro hesitated. Could he take that risk? Could he justify it? Even if Kuron didn’t know what he’d been made to do, could Shiro be sure he wasn’t acting unconsciously against the team?

Could he live with himself if he allowed suspicion and hatred to rule him?

Squaring his shoulders, Shiro looked Allura in the eye. “You know I can't speak for the rest of you, but for my part, that's a risk I'm willing to take.”

Lance wavered, the barrel of his rifle rising toward the ceiling. “What—seriously? After the guy almost beheaded Keith, you want to turn him loose?”

“I...” Shiro glanced to Keith, heart clenching. The welts on Keith's neck shone an angry pink, darkening to red where Kuron's fingers had pressed against the skin. “I don’t...”

“It was my fault,” Keith said, his voice so level it snapped Shiro out of his budding panic. He raised his gaze from the welts to Keith’s face, and was surprised to find no trace of blame there. “I’ve surprised Shiro in the middle of a flashback before. I know it sometimes takes a second for him to realize I’m not a threat.” Keith glanced to where Kuron lay, a small trickle of blood visible at his hairline. “I shouldn’t have grabbed him like that.”

Lance stared at Keith like he’d suddenly turned purple, then huffed and let his bayard dissipate. Hunk followed suit immediately, Pidge a moment later. “Well I don’t know that it’s _all_ your fault,” Lance muttered. “Seems like kind of an extreme reaction to me.”

“It’s different,” Shiro said. “When you’re--”

He faltered, keenly aware of seven sets of eyes on him. “When you’re… what?” Pidge asked.

Shiro closed his eyes. “Look. I’m not saying it’s easy to forgive this. It’s fucking _hard._ ” His voice dropped low, and he had to force himself to continue. “I _know_ that.”

Suddenly Matt was at his side, laying a hand on his arm. “It's okay,” he whispered. "Take your time."

“It’s...” Shiro drew himself up with his next breath, reaching out to the Black Lion for strength. “When you’re in a position like that—when you’re alone and scared, and everyone around you seems to want you dead, you stop thinking about whether or not you're taking things too far. All that matters is survival.” His eyes burned as the ghosts of his past crowded around him. “I can’t expect you to trust someone who lashed out like he did, but you have to understand… If you’d been in the Arena with me—any of you—I… I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t have killed you. I _can’t._ And ever since I got out, I’ve been trying to come to terms with that knowledge. God knows it’s not easy, but if I hate _him_ , if I don’t even give him a chance, I’m the worst kind of hypocrite.”

For a long moment, there was silence. Shiro stared at Kuron, too scared to face his friends. They must be horrified; Shiro had prepared himself for that eventuality when he’d decided not to tell them the things he remembered about the Arena. It was one thing to know he'd survived the cruelty of the Galra empire, but if they knew the full truth, if they knew how many innocent prisoners he'd killed... Shiro wasn't sure how anyone could know that and not look at him in revulsion.

But Matt hadn’t left his side, and that gave Shiro hope.

A moment later, Keith stepped up beside him, leaning in until their shoulders were pressed together. Shiro looked up, and Keith smiled.

“I could tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“What you’d do,” Keith said. “If one of us had been in the Arena with you. You said you couldn’t say what you’d have done. I know.”

“Keith--”

Matt pressed a finger to Shiro’s lips, silencing his protests. “No,” he said. “Keith’s right. We know what you would have done, because you _did it._ You got me out.”

There were a lot of arguments to be made about the circumstances in which Shiro had made that decision and how much farther he’d fallen after Matt was gone, but Shiro’s throat was thick with tears, and Keith was smiling his sharp-edged smile that promised a fight if Shiro tried to slander himself any further, so Shiro relented.

"Does that mean...?" Shiro glanced again to Kuron, agony compacting in his chest.

"We'll give him a chance," Keith said. He glanced at Matt, and then at the others. When no one argued, Keith turned back to Shiro. "If he's really like you, then he'd never hurt us, either."

Saying that made the whole thing sound so simple, as though Haggar couldn't have toyed with Kuron's mind, as though Shiro hadn't been changed by his experiences in the Arena. Part of Shiro wanted to break it down for them, to make sure they all understood what they were agreeing to. What they were forgiving. But there would be time later to make sure the others understood the depths of the shadows cast across Shiro's life. For now he let himself relax into the homecoming. He turned, flung an arm around Keith’s shoulders, and pulled him into a hug.

“God _damn_ but I missed you guys.”

Keith’s laugh shattered the crystallized silence in the hangar. Shiro heard Lance laughing, caught a few fragments of Hunk’s conversation with Coran, the both of them already theorizing about the creation of Shiro’s clone. He saw a blur of brown, white, and green as Pidge charged across the floor and caught her brother around the waist, knocking them both back against the Black Lion’s shield just as it disappeared.

They ended up sprawled on the floor, Pidge sobbing into Matt’s chest. Matt had his own eyes screwed closed, his nose and mouth buried in the explosion of Pidge’s hair, his knuckles blanched with the force of his hold on Pidge’s shoulders.

Shiro smiled at them, reluctantly pulling away from Keith just in time to be swarmed by Hunk and Lance, who launched into what must have been a dramatized version of events since Shiro had disappeared. The story—told mostly by Lance, with corrections from Hunk and Allura, who stood sedately with Coran a few steps back—had Keith scoffing every few seconds, but he didn’t actually argue with Lance’s assessment of his tenure of leadership, and Shiro reached out to ruffle Keith’s hair affectionately.

“I told you you had what it takes,” he said. And Keith, as he had three years ago when Shiro had first taken him under his wing, warmed to the praise, his eyes shining with that desperate desire to be good enough. “I’m proud of you, Keith. And Lance.” He turned, giving Lance a warm smile. “Thanks for taking care of them while I was gone.”

Lance flushed, waving off the compliment with an almost frantic air, his laughter pitching toward the rafters. Allura smiled into her hand.

She stepped up beside Shiro as Lance drew Keith into an argument that seemed to have less heat than the ones Shiro remembered. Hunk gave a halfhearted effort to pull them apart, but for the most part he seemed content to let them rile each other up.

“So,” Allura said. “What _would_ you like to do with him?” She glanced toward Kuron, and Shiro sighed.

“He’ll need a cryopod first,” Shiro said. He reached out to Black to be sure she wouldn’t try to lock the rest of them out again, but she only rumbled her approval, and Shiro went to kneel beside Kuron, checking him over as Allura signaled Coran for a stretcher. “After that… Pidge?”

Pidge’s excited chatter tapered off, and both she and Matt turned toward Shiro. “Yeah?”

“I need a favor.”

* * *

Kuron woke.

That was the first surprise—that he was alive at all in the wake of the confrontation with the paladins. He recognized the pod room on the Castle of Lions, as well as the prickly sensation of coming out of cryosleep. So not only was he alive, but the paladins had gone through the trouble of healing him.

_Why?_

He hit the ground, and for a moment he thought something must be wrong if the paladins weren’t here to supervise him the instant he woke up. (Not to welcome him, or to make sure he was okay; he wouldn’t have expected that even if the whole team had been here.)

Then he saw Keith, dressed in his jeans and black tee-shirt, leaning against the center console. He had his luxite blade out, toying with it as Kuron climbed to his feet, but the fact that he wasn't wearing armor confused Kuron. The shirt gave him an unrestricted view of Keith's neck, which was still faintly pink, though the ugly burn was gone. He must have just finished his own stay in the pods.

“What happens now?” Kuron asked, struggling for calm.

Keith spun the blade one last time, then caught it in a reverse grip, the metal flashing white in the pod room’s light. He stared at Kuron in silence for a long moment, then pushed off the console and stalked toward him, eyes narrowed.

He stopped less than a foot from Kuron, who remained utterly still, not daring to move and risk startling him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if they'd done something to his prosthetic, disabled it somehow. It was the only reason he could think that Keith would dare approach with neither armor nor bayard. Like Kuron wasn't a threat at all.

Keith moved faster than Kuron could track, raising his free hand to Kuron’s face and pressing something small and sticky to his temple. Kuron reached for it on instinct, but Keith grabbed his wrist and forced his hand down.

“Time to answer some questions,” Keith growled. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me. I—As far as I knew, I escaped on my own. Maybe Haggar or someone orchestrated the whole thing, but she didn’t give me any instructions.”

Keith nodded for a moment, his eyes distant. Kuron spotted a bit of black plastic in his ear—a comm device. So the others were listening in.

“What are your intentions regarding Voltron?” Keith demanded.

Kuron shook his head. “I _told_ you. I don’t know anything. Ask Shiro; he could tell you--”

“I’m not asking about Shiro. I’m asking about _you._ Are you here to kill the paladins of Voltron?”

“What? No!”

“Are you here to steal the lions?”

“I don’t see how I could,” Kuron seethed. “Seeing as I can’t _pilot_ any of them.” His head was pounding, and it was a struggle to keep his voice even. He couldn’t let Keith bait him like this. He couldn’t afford to antagonize these people.

Keith narrowed his eyes, searching Kuron’s face for… what?

His lifted his hand, and the flash of metal set Kuron’s heart pounding—but Keith held the hilt of his dagger out toward him, face unreadable.

“Take it,” Keith said.

Kuron blinked. “What?”

“Take it.” Keith lifted the knife higher until Kuron relented.

Head pounding, Kuron stared down at the blade. “Okay… Checking to see if I’m part Galra or something? I mean, I’m no expert on this whole cloning thing, but I think the whole point is to end up with the same DNA as the original.”

Keith didn’t look amused. Instead of answering, he closed his hand over Kuron’s, holding the luxite blade between them. Then, looking Kuron dead in the eye, Keith guided the tip of the blade to point at his own heart.

Kuron balked, fighting Keith’s hold in an attempt to turn the blade away. The light reflecting off the blade stabbed at his eyes, aggravating his migraine until he had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out in pain. “Keith!” he snapped. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Testing a theory.” How was he so calm? His gaze never left Kuron’s face, and his hand gave no slack as he held the blade in place. The tip caught in the fabric of his shirt, tearing a small hole. Kuron’s breath came quicker, fear pounding against his skull. “Kill me.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Kill me,” Keith said again. “If you can.”

The words echoed in Kuron’s ears, Keith’s voice bleeding into Kuron’s, bleeding into Haggar’s, bleeding into voices he felt he should have remembered. _Kill him._ There was an urgency to the command that made Kuron’s fingers tighten on the blade, and he fought with all his strength to hold himself back. It was _Keith_. Borrowed emotion or not, Keith _mattered_. Keith was _family._ And Kuron _could not_ kill him.

The headache crested, pain whiting out Kuron’s vision for a long moment, and when it cleared, he was curled in on himself, his hand, in Keith’s, still gripping the knife.

 _Kill him!_ Haggar shrieked in his head.

“ _No!_ ” Kuron screamed. The sound seemed to startle Keith, and he let go of Kuron’s hand. The knife fell from numb fingers, striking the floor with a loud clatter, and Kuron gripped his head between his hands, howling as the pain continued to build. It was a hurricane; it was a tidal wave. Every second it gained in power, hammering again and again and again, until Kuron was sure his skull had to crack under the onslaught.

Distantly, he heard voices. Keith's voice, taut and angry. “Pidge, talk to me.”

Then, faint, but tinged with… with something. With fear, maybe. “I-I think--I think I--Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got it!”

Kuron’s vision swam, his head throbbing as forces like the lions themselves pounded down on him.

Then, all at once, the pain was gone.

Kuron wavered, the room around him spinning. Keith moved, but Kuron didn’t even have the presence of mind to defend himself.

Then Keith was holding him, hands shaking as they gripped Kuron’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” Keith said. His voice shook. “I’m sorry. It’s going to be okay now.”

Kuron wanted to believe him. He _did._ But the darkness was closing in again, and thought grew difficult.

So he stopped thinking and just...drifted.


	7. Changelings

“So you’re sure she’s gone?” Matt asked, lifting a spoonful of food goo. It wasn’t a thing like the pulverized food product he’d eaten for months on the _Arva V_ , but one tasteless neon sludge was just as disgusting as another. He popped the spoon in his mouth, froze, and then had to remind himself to swallow, fighting his gag reflex all the while.

Shiro gave him a knowing look as he slurped his own food goo. Actually slurped it, like the last dregs of sugary milk from the bottom of a bowl of cereal! Matt scowled and stomped on Shiro’s foot, making him falter as he said, “The last scan was clear, right Pidge?”

Pidge nodded. She had a bowl of goo beside her, but it went untouched as she worked furiously on her analysis of Shiro’s clone. They’d been calling him Kuron, but Shiro had made it clear that was going to change. It was a label, and it worked for clarity’s sake, but in practice it was no better than calling him “the clone” all the time.

So far, no one had come up with a better name for him, though, Lance’s suggestion (“Orish! You know, Shiro but backwards!”) was met with groans and flat stares all around, and Hunk’s (“Gane, as in the second half of _Shirogane_.”) derailed them all for a solid ten minutes with a series of jokes about how the original Shiro was the one who was always disappearing, followed by a spat between Keith and Lance that nearly came to blows over whether or not _Gane_ and _gone_ were similar enough to be a viable pun.

Through it all, Pidge kept working, and Matt took a seat at the table beside Shiro, watching the infamous Defenders of the Universe fling (mostly) friendly insults around like confetti.

Hunk had ducked out halfway through the conversation, but he returned now, setting a plate of slightly-too-orange-to-be-natural garlic rolls on the table as Pidge began her report.

“Okay, so Shiro’s theory was right,” she said, snagging two rolls and wrapping them in a napkin as Lance descended on the platter. “Haggar created some kind of mental link with Kuron, similar to the paladin bond. But, like, a parasitic paladin bond. The headaches were most likely caused by her trying to gather information through his perceptions or implanting her own thoughts to try to influence him.”

“So she _Imperiused_ him,” Lance said.

Pidge stopped with her mouth open, considering that. “I dunno. The Imperius Curse gives the caster total control over the victim. This is more… suggestion.”

“So, like, Confundus?” Hunk suggested.

“Sure,” Pidge said. “Haggar cast _Confundo_ on her new baby clone.”

Hunk shuddered. “Damn. It’s super skeevy when you put it like that.”

“And it’s _not_ super skeevy phrased any other way?” Keith asked.

Pidge sighed. “ _Anyway,_ Haggar made the dumbass decision to give Kuron _Shiro’s_ memories and personality, which basically screwed her over.”

Shiro snorted, and Matt patted his back before he could choke on garlic rolls—which were, Matt found, infinitely better than food goo, if a little more bitter than he would have liked.

“Sorry,” Shiro said once he could breathe again. “Are you saying my brain’s the bane of the Galra Empire? Because I’m pretty sure they’re not the one’s getting fucked by it every day.”

Lance clapped a hand to his chest, forgetting he had a garlic knot in it and spraying crumbs everywhere. “Shiro! Did you just use a bad word?” He ripped off a chunk of bread with his teeth, then slammed the heel of one hand on the table. “That’s it. Where’s the soap?”

Keith put a hand on Lance’s head as he started to stand and forced him back into his seat. “That’s nothing. You should have seen Shiro and Matt together before all this.”

“Hey, I was a flawless role model for you,” Shiro protested.

Raising his eyebrows, Keith leaned his elbows on the table and folded his hands in front of his mouth. “Shiro, you and Matt taught a fifteen-year-old to make his own explosives. On school property.”

“You _what?_ ” Lance shrieked.

Keith smirked at him. “How do you think I set off those explosions the night we rescued Shiro from that quarantine unit?”

Pidge looked over her computer screen at Matt. “I'm guessing that one's all on you?”

“Naturally,” said Matt with a bow.

Shiro was faintly pink now, but he maintained his composure admirably as he stared Keith down. “I was only there to make sure you two knuckleheads didn’t blow yourselves up.”

“Ooh, knuckleheads,” Hunk said, pretending to be scandalized. “Shiro, you devil, you.”

Shiro gave Matt a flat look. “I blame you for this.”

“Me?” Matt asked, ripping off a piece of his last garlic knot. “Shiro, you’re the one who said fuck.”

“Getting back on track.” Shiro glared Lance down as he tried to make one last witty comment, then turned back to Pidge. “So Kuron resisted Haggar’s attempts to influence him.”

She nodded. “And a good thing, too. It was the buildup of… psychic pressure, I guess you would call it, that let me isolate the link. I programmed the castle with an interference pattern, so as long as Kuron’s here, Haggar can’t get to him. We can talk mobile options later—anything from a dampener in his helmet or on, like, a medical alert bracelet to a microchip implanted beneath his skin.”

“Which is the kind of thing you’ll need to ask _him_ ,” Shiro said pointedly.

Pidge nodded. “Exactly. Like I said, a question for later. Point is, his mind is his own. Or, well. His mind is like 95% yours, but no one’s actively influencing him. So there’s that.”

Shiro laughed humorlessly, swallowed the last of his dinner, then pushed himself to his feet. “Right. Well, I’m gonna go see if he’s awake yet. Try to patch things up, you know? I’ll let you know when he’s up for some guests.”

Matt gave him a sad smile and watched him go. When he turned back around, Pidge and Keith were both staring at him—and Matt most definitely _did not_ like the smile on his sister’s face.

“So,” she said, shutting her laptop with a snap. “You and Shiro...”

* * *

Kuron was sitting up when Shiro entered the room, though he hadn’t answered Shiro’s knocks. He hadn’t changed out of the white medsuit, either, despite the closet full of clothes waiting for him across the room. He hadn’t even turned on the lights, and he lifted his head only slightly when Shiro came in.

“Sorry,” Shiro said. “I thought you were asleep.”

Slowly, Kuron looked up at him, his face pale and drawn with an expression Shiro knew all too well. It hit Shiro like a punch to the gut, and he dropped down onto the bed, keeping as much distance between him and Kuron as the mattress allowed.

“You’re not a prisoner here, you know.”

Kuron stiffened, his hands clenching on his knees. “I never thought I was.”

That was a lie, but Shiro didn’t call him on it. Kuron had the same memories as Shiro, the same patterns of thought. After the confrontation in the Black Lion’s hangar, after whatever Kuron remembered of Keith’s challenge in the pod room, he must have expected a prison cell. Shiro had never seen anything like a dungeon on the castle-ship, so he could well believe prisoners would be kept in rooms like this—small and sparse, but not uncomfortable, much like the paladins’ own quarters.

Kuron must have only just woken up, or he would have already tried the door and found it unlocked. There had been some discussion about setting a guard or some such—an effort to make sure Kuron didn’t run the instant he recovered from the psychic backlash of breaking Haggar’s hold on him—but Shiro had shot down every suggestion except for putting the one-man shuttles on lockdown.

Shiro knew too well his own issues with captivity, and he refused to put his clone in that headspace when they finally had a chance for a fresh start.

“I’m sorry for that mess in the pod room,” Shiro said, letting his hands dangle between his knees. He sat with almost identical posture to Kuron, which, while not exactly surprising, was still a little disconcerting. The only things that set them apart were their clothes and their hair—Kuron’s shorter, closer to how he'd worn it at the Garrison; Shiro’s a little longer now that he’d spent several weeks without a proper haircut.

Kuron took a steadying breath. “So that really happened? Keith telling me to kill him?”

Shiro nodded.

“Damn,” Kuron muttered. “I was kind of hoping that was a fever dream.”

“No. Unfortunately. We needed to trigger whatever connection Haggar was using to influence you so we could block it.”

Kuron raised an eyebrow. “So you give the guy with an evil witch in his head a knife and tell him to go to town. Sounds smart. How big a bribe did it take to get Keith to go along with that plan?”

“He volunteered, actually.”

Kuron’s breath caught. “He... What?”

“Said there was no way you would hurt him, whatever Haggar tried.” Shiro reached out and knocked his fist against Kuron’s arm, smiling as Kuron covered his face with his hand. His breathing had turned ragged, and Shiro politely averted his gaze as Kuron clawed at the scraps of his composure. “He was right, too. Sucks for your headache, but it gave Pidge all the data she needed to lock Haggar out.”

“So I’m…?”

“Free?” Shiro said. “Yeah. The castle’s acting as a psychic shield for now, but Pidge has a few ideas for long-term fixes. You should ask her about that when you’re up for it. Anyway...” Shiro paused, trying to catch Kuron’s eye, but Kuron turned away. However good he was at hiding his emotion, he couldn’t fool Shiro, who saw his own insecurities reflected back at him. “Everyone wanted me to let you know that you’re welcome to stay, if you’d like to.”

“I don’t need your pity.”

Shiro’s brow furrowed, and he couldn’t help the stab of hurt Kuron’s words elicited. “This isn’t pity, Ku—” Shiro stopped himself, and Kuron looked up at him in surprise. “We want you here. That’s what this castle is—a place for people with nowhere else to go. But… you’re gonna need a name if you decide to stay." He paused, watching the emotions flickering across Kuron's face. "What do you think about Ryou?”

Kuron’s eyes instantly filled with tears--he knew as well as Shiro that  _Ryou_ had been what a much younger Shiro had called the baby brother he'd wished for five birthdays in a row. Ryou cursed softly, scrubbing at his cheeks. “Wow,” he muttered. "When you settle, you settle _hard._ "

“Or,” Shiro said. “All that wishing on stars finally worked; I just had to meet you halfway. Only question now is whether or not this is something _you_ want.”

“I...” He faltered, then searched Shiro’s face as thought waiting for him to take the offer back. “I think I could learn to live with it. You’re sure Keith and Matt are okay with this?”

Shiro smiled, resting his hand on Ryou’s shoulder. “Of course they are.” A long beat of silence followed this proclamation, and Shiro sighed. “You need to hear it from them.”

“That’s not--”

Shiro held up his hand. It was obvious how much Ryou cared what the others thought—Keith and Matt most of all. Shared memories, Shiro supposed. This was going to take some getting used to. “I get it. I’d feel the same—literally.” Ryou shot him a wry smile, and Shiro chuckled. “You want me to send them in?”

“Yeah,” Ryou said. Shiro smiled, stood, and squeezed Ryou’s shoulder one last time before heading for the door. “One more thing?”

Shiro turned. “What's that?”

“You should talk to Lance. I think he’s more bothered by Blue shutting him out than he wants the others to know.” Ryou folded his hands in his lap. “I’d talk to him, but last time I think I just made it worse.”

That sounded like the sort of thing they’d need to talk about later, but Matt and Keith could probably do more for Ryou's self-esteem than Shiro. “I'll talk to him,” Shiro promised. “And Ryou? Whatever happened in Operation Kuron, I’m glad we both made it home.”

* * *

“He wants to see you.”

Keith looked up from the card game that had barely been holding his attention as Shiro walked in. He seemed tired, but Keith was pretty sure he’d be more blank-faced if things had gone south with his clone.

“Me?” Keith asked.

“And Matt.” Shiro’s eyes drifted to the other paladins gathered around the table—Hunk deeply focused on his hand, Lance with his legs sprawled across Hunk’s lap, Pidge and Matt conspiring together. They’d claimed they counted as one unit for this game, and Pidge had talked circles around Lance when he tried to protest.

Keith spared one last glance for his hand—not a good one, he thought, though he still didn’t really understand the rules of this game. Lance claimed it was his family’s version of poker, but Keith _knew_ poker, and this was not it. Hunk knew the rules, and Pidge picked up on them pretty quickly—quick enough to start cheating, Keith was pretty sure. Keith, though? He was in over his head.

“Yeah,” Keith said. “Better than losing at this nonsense game anyway.”

Shiro smiled at him, but his eyes quickly returned to the game—no. To Lance. That struck Keith as odd, for some reason, but he was already trying to think of what Kuron could possibly want to talk about.

“Oh,” Shiro said just before Keith left. “It's Ryou. His name.”

“Ryou.” Keith nodded. “Cool.”

It was a short, quiet walk to the residential floor. The hallway here split just outside the elevator. To the right were the paladin quarters, to the left, guest rooms. Coran had once said this was where the cadets training under the paladins had stayed, and they’d occasionally put up small groups of freed prisoners here while friends and relatives rested in the cryopods.

Still, it felt odd to come this way, and Keith couldn’t help wondering if there was some way to make it feel less like Ryou was an outsider. Keith had been there. It sucked.

“Ryou?” Keith called, knocking on the door. “Shiro said you wanted to talk to me?” After a moment of silence, there came a shuffling sound, and then the door slid aside.

It was amazing how different Ryou looked now. He’d put on fresh clothes: a loose, light gray shirt and jeans that looked more casual than Keith had ever seen Shiro dress, even back on Earth. Shiro had always been a uniform and tucked-in shirts kind of guy, and he’d chided Keith more than once on his non-regulation appearance.

But it was more than clothes. Now that Ryou wasn’t trying to be Shiro—now that _Keith_ wasn’t forcing him into that mold—Ryou looked… softer, somehow. More expressive than Shiro had been in recent months. He met Keith’s eyes, but his gaze was a question, and he waited for Keith to come in before he returned to the bed.

“So...” Keith tugged at the collar of his jacket, looking around in the vain hope of finding some way to break the ice. He’d never been very good at starting conversations, especially when there was no clear purpose to the conversation. “You feeling okay?”

Ryou shrugged. “I’ve been worse.”

Keith bobbed his head in a halfhearted nod. “Headache gone?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry about that, by the way.”

Ryou smiled, and this, finally, brought to mind Shiro’s quiet, pleasant mask. “It’s okay. Shiro explained.”

“Oh.” Keith thumbed the ridges of his zipper. “Good.”

Ryou seemed to have to work himself up to speaking, and when he finally managed, the words tumbled out of him in a rush, as though if he dawdled he might lose his nerve. “Shiro said you were sure I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Yeah?” Keith frowned. “You sound surprised.”

“That’s because I am.” Ryou rubbed the back of his neck. “I could have killed you. In the hangar. You shouldn’t trust me.”

Keith frowned. The dissonance of Ryou’s existence kept hitting him anew. For all Ryou looked like Shiro, spoke with the same voice, used all the same mannerisms… he and Shiro weren’t very much alike at all. Keith couldn’t imagine Shiro ever looking this unsure of himself, or being afraid to voice a concern, or _being_ concerned with his own trustworthiness. By all accounts, this was an imposter wearing the skin of Keith’s best friend, and wearing it poorly. Everything he did was _off—_ just enough to make it all feel subtly wrong. It brought to mind the old stories of changelings--fae children left in trade for stolen human children.

Keith had always felt a peculiar, aching sympathy for those unwanted fae children trying to make their way through an alien world. When the stories always spoke of the stolen child, or of the cheated parents, Keith had hungered to know what became of the changelings. They'd resonated with him long before he'd first heard the word _autism_ whispered like a curse between foster parents who wanted him to be something he didn't know how to be, long before he'd first read that changeling myths probably arose to explain away children like him.

It wasn't the same situation here; Ryou was a far more literal iteration of the old changeling stories. But Keith could, at least, sympathize with the struggle to live up to expectations that never quite fit.

"Maybe I shouldn't trust you," Keith said, staring at his hands. "But I do."

"You're going to regret this."

"Will I?" Keith responded at once, the words springing readily to his lips. "If you say so."

Ryou gave a small jerk, his face crumpling. “I’m not him.”

“You have the same memories,” Keith pointed out. “So you and I still know each other better than I know most of the rest of the team.”

“But I can’t _be him._ ” Ryou rubbed his hands across his face, the motion speaking to a restless energy Keith knew all too well. “I can’t—I’m not—I’m not confident like him. I can’t be there for you the way he is. I might have the memories of your friend, but I can only be what the Galra made me.”

Keith sat on the bed, pulling his feet up beneath him as he considered his words. “When Shiro first made it back to Earth, I almost didn’t recognize him. Not just physically—his time in the Arena changed him. He doesn’t laugh like he used to. He’s colder, more cautious. He’s always looking for threats the rest of us can’t see. And he’s built up all these walls that I’m still trying to get behind.

“None of that makes me care about him any less. Whether or not he’s the person I first met all those years ago, he’s still my best friend--and he's still a hell of a lot more than what they tried to make him into.” Keith rocked back, watching the conflicting emotions wash over Ryou’s face. “I'm not asking you to be Shiro, and I refuse to believe you're just a weapon. You're _you,_ and I know enough of you to want to find out about the rest.”

Eyes misting, Ryou smiled a smile that, ironically, was closer to Shiro’s old smile than Shiro himself usually managed. Still tired, still a little sad, but not as guarded as what Keith had grown accustomed to seeing. The week of slow decline as Ryou pursued Voltron in a dying ship, followed by the revelation that he was a clone, seemed to have shattered the emotional walls he’d inherited from Shiro, leaving him as open as he was vulnerable.

The thought made Keith ache for the both of them, in different ways.

“You’re pretty smart sometimes,” Ryou said, wiping his eyes. “He was right to leave you in charge.”

“I don’t know about _that_ ,” Keith muttered, flushing. “But… thanks.” Smiling, he put his hand on Ryou’s shoulder. It felt strange to be comforting him, but not necessarily in a bad way. They would have to figure out what they were to each other, of course, and not just what Shiro’s memories made them. Once, that might have seemed daunting. But after Lance had proven to be Keith’s staunchest supporter—not to mention his voice of reason—Keith was willing to see where time took them.

A knock on the door split the silence, and Keith frowned as he glanced to Ryou for approval, then opened the door.

Matt stood there, looking oddly nervous. He wore glasses once more; Pidge had set the castle to synthesize lenses with the right prescription for the frames she’d been wearing on and off since her time at the Garrison, and it seemed the castle had finally finished the process.

“Oh,” Keith said. “Uh, hey.”

“Hey. Sorry, I’m not interrupting, am I?” Matt’s eyes darted to Ryou, then settled back on Keith.

Keith shook his head. “No, it’s fine.” An awkward silence grew between them, and Keith glanced over his shoulder. Ryou seemed to have turned to stone, his eyes riveted to Matt’s face. “I’ll just… go, then.” Keith hesitated, smiling at Matt. “I should have said it sooner, but—it’s good to have you back.”

Matt blinked, the hard edge of anxiety smoothing from his face. “Thanks, Keith,” he said. “I missed you, too.”

Keith left them then, heading back to the rec room where the card game had been going. It was just Hunk and Pidge there now, the pair of them bent over Pidge’s computer chattering about things Keith couldn’t comprehend in a language Keith wasn’t entirely sure was English.

“Where’d the others go?” Keith asked, leaning his arms on the couch behind Pidge.

Hunk looked up, surprised. “Hm? Oh, uh, I dunno. Shiro asked Lance to help him with something.”

Keith frowned. “Really? He didn’t say what?”

Hunk shook his head.

“Huh.” Keith glanced at the door, wondering where they might have gone. The training deck, maybe? Or down to see the lions? They’d told Shiro and Matt a severely truncated version of the last month while Ryou was in the cryopod, so maybe…

 _None of your business, Kogane,_ Keith told himself. _They’d have waited for you if they wanted your input._

Still, though… He couldn’t help feeling like he ought to be there. He glanced at Hunk and Pidge, both already absorbed in their project once more. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t miss him.

With a sigh, Keith turned and headed for the door.

* * *

Matt remained standing, awkwardly, just inside the door for a long while after Keith left. He wasn’t quite sure how to talk to the clone of the man he’d been crushing on for the last two years, and Ryou seemed to be no better off. So they just… waited.

It wasn’t that Matt had anything against the guy—initial suspicions aside. Hell, the fact that Shiro had defended Ryou as fiercely as he had would have been reason enough for Matt to give him a chance, even without the fact that, like Matt and Shiro, Ryou had been caught up in Haggar’s games. Anyone deserved a bit of a break after that, surely. But from what Shiro had said, Ryou was just as stubborn and self-critical as Shiro. The thought almost made Matt smile. Looked like, once again, Matt was going to have to be the one to come knocking on that thick skull of his.

Drumming his fingers on his arm, Matt considered Ryou—hunched over on the bed, left hand curled over the place where his prosthetic met flesh. “Sorry about the concussion.”

Ryou stilled, then turned toward Matt. “Right. In the hangar?”

“Yeah.” Matt grimaced, remembering the sound of his staff striking Ryou’s skull. He hadn’t been thinking about the consequences at the moment—hadn’t been thinking about much, really, except the way Keith had to bite down on his scream as Ryou’s hand scorched his neck and the way Shiro had locked up at the sight of it, all color draining from his face.

He’d discovered that vicious streak in himself during his time with Commander Ellent and her rebels, and he was still learning to be okay with it. Sometimes the universe just pushed you too far, and something snapped inside.

“I mean, I can’t really blame you,” Ryou said with a shrug. “I'd… _Shiro_ would have done the same if it had been anyone else attacking Keith.”

Matt frowned at the pause. There was an air of guilt to it, and of deception, as though Ryou felt like it wasn’t his place to be protective of Keith, which was absurd, really. Since when did anyone have to apologize for wanting to help?

Matt left that festering sore alone for the time being. “Still. I could have killed you, and I’m sorry for that.”

“But--”

“Just accept my damn apology, Shirogane, for fuck’s sake.” Matt gave a lopsided smile to take the edge off his words, and Ryou blinked at him.

“Shirogane?”

Matt’s smile faltered, and he wrapped his arms around himself. “Well… yeah. You and Shiro are basically twins, right? I just figured you’d want to go by the same name. If you don’t want to, that’s--”

“No.” Ryou ran his hand across his cheek and massaged the hollow behind his jaw. “No, that’s. Fine. Shirogane is fine.”

He was still so tense. Matt let his arms drop to his sides. “Ryou.”

Ryou looked up.

“Look...” Matt squirmed for a minute, then leaned back against the door, tucking his hands behind his back. It had always been hard to focus when he looked into those eyes, and for all the fact that he didn’t see Shiro when he looked at Ryou—not Shiro’s passion, not Shiro’s fondness—his heart still pounded in his throat. “If you’re not still sore about that fight, then… what _is_ your problem with me?”

Ryou inhaled sharply, then abruptly averted his gaze. “I don’t have a problem with you.”

Matt arched an eyebrow. “You can barely look me in the eye.”

“Yeah, well...” Ryou’s shoulders sagged, and he let out a weary chuckle. “Maybe that has something to do with the fact that I can’t stop thinking about how much Shiro loves you.”

All thought ground to a screeching halt as Matt gaped at Ryou.

“Sorry. _What?_ ”

The corner of Ryou’s mouth twitched. “He’s going to murder me for this,” he muttered. Then, bracing his hands on his knees, he straightened up. “Shiro’s got a thing for you. A major thing. A ‘throw myself bodily into the Arena for you’ thing. In case you hadn’t noticed.” There was a pause as Matt worked his mouth silently, his brain trying to wrap itself around Ryou’s words. “I guess that means you hadn’t noticed.”

Matt tried twice to formulate a response, the words catching on his teeth. Ryou stared back solemnly, his smile not quite touching his eyes.

“You know, it’s probably a good thing I’m doing this for Shiro, because if it was _him_ here, this silence would be killing him.”

“It’s not killing _you_?” Matt squeaked. This, at least, he could force past his traitorous teeth. The words _Shiro_ , _love_ , and _major thing_ kept rattling around in Matt’s head, refusing to fall into any sort of order.

Ryou shrugged. “There’s not much at stake for me, is there? I’m not the one you’d be rejecting.”

The sorrow in Ryou’s voice put a stop to the frantic shrieking in Matt’s head, and he forced himself to pay attention. _I can’t stop thinking about it,_ Ryou had said. _He_ couldn’t stop. “You care about Keith the same way Shiro does.”

It was, perhaps, the most cowardly way Matt could have asked whether Ryou, too, had feelings for Matt, but he couldn’t make himself be any more direct.

Ryou caught his meaning anyway. He flushed, turning his gaze to the stripe of darkness visible through the closet doors. “I’ve had Shiro’s emotions shoved into my head,” he said. “They’re not mine. Shiro cares about Keith, so I do, too. Shiro wants to protect this team, so I do, too. Shiro… Shiro loves you, so, yeah. I guess I do, too. But it’s not the same.”

“Ryou.”

“I don’t know how I feel about you,” Ryou said. His voice was firmer than Matt would have expected, and it stopped whatever feeble comfort he’d been about to offer. “I barely know who I _am._ I wouldn’t start something with you even if it didn’t feel incredibly skeevy to exploit the awful things you two have been through together just to—I don’t even know. Just to pretend I actually exist?”

“You _do_ exist.” Matt worried his lip, watching as the pain momentarily vanished from Ryou’s face, only to creep back in as the silence stretched on. After a moment of deliberation, Matt strode forward and plopped himself down next to Ryou, noting the way he went rigid at Matt’s proximity. “And your feelings, wherever they came from, are valid.”

“But you don’t love me.” Ryou held up his hands before Matt could answer. “That’s not self-pity. It's a fact. You can't love me, because neither of us knows who that _is._ And that's fine. Shiro’s emotions feel like mine, but I know they were manufactured and… It’s going to take time for me to figure out how to deal with all of that. I’m not expecting anything from you. It’s not fair to either of us— _any_ of us. Because I know Shiro’s feelings _are_ genuine. I just thought this was the sort of thing you should be aware of.”

Matt leaned over, pressing his shoulder to Ryou’s. “Thanks for telling me. And… I’m okay with getting to know you the old-fashioned way, if you're interested.” He twisted and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Matt.”

Ryou stared at the hand for a long moment, then burst out laughing and gave it a single, solid shake. “Hi, Matt. I’m so fucking done with existential crises for today. Think the others would be okay with me crashing their party for a while?”

A grin split Matt’s face, and he stood, yanking Ryou up by the arm and shoving him toward the door. “I know for a fact Hunk has been dying to give you a proper welcome-to-the-family hug, so...”

Laughter tingled beneath Matt’s fingertips as he shoved Ryou down the hall.

* * *

Shiro smiled as the Black Lion purred under his hands, arcing through space in that fluid, uninhibited way no ordinary ship could manage. Out here, settled deep into the bond, he wasn’t a pilot. He and Black were one mind, one will, and they cruised through the stars like a comet, reveling in the peace filling their souls.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this. It had only been a few days—a few days that he remembered beyond the haze of dark dreams encompassing his time in Operation Kuron—but it felt as though he’d been drowning in the murky depths of a frozen lake and had suddenly found the surface. Every sensation was heightened, every movement crisp, every instant of connection with his lion a fresh wonder. He drank it in, letting time slip away from him.

“Guess that answers one question, huh?” Lance called over the comms. His voice was bright and cheerful, but there was a single discordant note of… disappointment? No, that wasn’t quite right. Resignation.

_This must be what Ryou was talking about._

Shiro kept his own smile light as he reigned Black in, chuckling at her plaintive rumbles to roam just a little farther abroad, and fell in beside Lance and Red. He’d been surprised to hear about the jumble his disappearance had caused, though he supposed he didn’t have any right to be. He hadn’t thought about it beyond the comfort he took in knowing Keith could pilot Black for him if he had to. Honestly, he’d expected Allura to pilot Red until they found a new paladin, assuming she couldn't fill that role herself.

He’d never imagined Blue would let Lance go, even temporarily. The two of them had always seemed close. Direct verbal communication with Black was new to Shiro, but they'd gotten better and interpreting the combination of images, emotions, and intents that carried through the bond, and they’d spent a considerable amount of time contemplating the rest of the team. Black, it turned out, was as protective of the other lions as Shiro was of the other paladins, and so they watched, like a couple of proud mothers critiquing the referees at their kids’ game.

If there was one thing Shiro and Black agreed on, it was that the paladins were all very well suited to their lions—none more so than Lance and Keith. Red was always a hair trigger away from charging to Keith’s rescue, and Blue’s attention followed Lance around the ship like a duckling that had imprinted on the wrong animal and now trailed along in hopeless adoration.

There was nothing in the way Red moved that suggested a problem with this partnership, but Lance’s subdued tone was another matter altogether.

“It must have been hard to get used to Red,” Shiro said. “From what I’ve seen, she’s a lot more… nimble than the other lions.”

Lance chuckled. “If by ‘nimble’ you mean she’s liable to go careening off in random directions like a cat sprinting around the house for no discernible reason.”

Red suddenly flared her reverse boosters, jerking to a halt that made Lance lurch forward, the breath rushing out of him as his harness tightened around his chest.

“That’s a good thing, hot stuff,” Lance wheezed, patting her console. “You know I love you. I just meant we had an… adjustment period. That involved a lot of slamming into things and getting yelled at by Keith.”

Black thrummed with amusement, allowing a few memories to drift toward Shiro, who smiled. For once it seemed Lance wasn't exaggerating. Keith was as protective of his lion as she was of him. “Well, you’ve obviously come a long way since then. I’m proud of you, Lance.”

The comms were silent, and when Shiro glanced down at the visual feed, he found an oddly somber expression on Lance’s face. His mouth opened once, then snapped shut, and he folded in on himself, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

Shiro frowned, but a flashing alert on the text-based comms array distracted him from his concerns. It was Allura, indicating she’d received the message he sent earlier, when he and Lance first headed out on this flight.

 _All ready to go in here,_ she’d written.

Time to get to the heart of the matter, then.

“Getting close to dinner,” Shiro said, turning Black back toward the castle. “Why don’t you land in Black’s hangar and we’ll head up together? Maybe get some more flying in afterwards?”

Lance didn’t question the request, just turned Red around and followed Shiro back. It wasn’t until they entered the hangar and found the Blue Lion sitting there, tail sweeping the floor behind her, that Lance let out a keening, uncertain noise.

“Relax, Lance,” Shiro said, setting down. “I think this will be good for you.”

Lance muttered something under his breath, but he’d yanked his helmet off as soon as he landed and was already down Red’s ramp and speed-walking toward the door. His eyes kept darting toward Blue, and Shiro felt a flash of pain from Black that he thought must have come from the other lions. It was too distant, too muted to be Black’s own emotions, though it still had the power to squeeze Shiro’s throat.

“Lance!” he called, hurrying after him. He caught up by the doors, a hand on Lance’s shoulder enough to stop him in his tracks. “Please. I just want to talk about this.”

“About what?” Lance asked, rounding on him. There were already tears building in his eyes, and his hands shook as he flung them wide, encompassing Shiro, the hangar, and all three lions. “About how Blue doesn’t want me anymore? About how Keith’s going to go back to Red now that we found you? That was always the plan, you know.” He swallowed, forcing a smile. “It’s a good one, too. Allura’s an amazing pilot, and she’s already come a long way with Blue. And Red! I mean, quiznak, every time I fly it’s this constant buzz of, _Where’s Keith, is Keith okay, we should be helping Keith._ It’s… it’s kind of adorable, really.”

Shiro watched him for a long moment, the way his whole body seemed to lean toward Blue, the way he shook with the effort of holding back. The instant Shiro let go of his shoulder, he had a feeling Lance would bolt.

“Have you had a chance to talk to Blue about why she shut you out?”

“Well… no,” Lance admitted. “Seemed a little clingy after Blue made her decision so clear.”

Shiro glanced up at her, prodding at the mental sense of guilt and grief hanging over all three lions. He’d never sensed any of the other lions before, and he wasn’t wholly sure how Black was doing it now, but it was like hearing the TV through the walls of a hotel room: he couldn’t make out every word, but with a little interpretation from Black, he got the gist of it.

“Seems to me that nothing about it was clear at all,” Shiro said. He caught Lance’s eye, silently asking for his trust. “Five minutes, Lance. That’s all I’m asking.”

Lance resisted still, but either he wanted to fix things as bad as Blue did or he didn’t want to argue with Shiro so soon after his return. Normally Shiro wouldn’t have encouraged that kind of blind obedience, but he would take whatever kind of cooperation he could get in this matter.

“Five minutes.” Lance melted under Shiro’s hand and allowed himself to be steered back toward the tight grouping of lions, where they were greeted with a tentative purr from Blue that had Lance’s hand up and reaching for her nose before he could stop himself. He froze, and Shiro was sure he was going to put his hand right back down, but Blue was faster, easing her head forward to close the last foot between them.

As soon as she touched him, Lance crumpled, curling against her and trying to muffle his sobs in his hand. Black sent Shiro an image of a golden cord snapping taut, a sense of _rightness_ pervading the image, and Shiro understood that to mean Lance and Blue had reestablished their bond.

Shiro gave Lance a moment to compose himself then, when his sobs had quieted to sniffles and he held Blue with less desperation and more fondness, Shiro came over and splayed his hand across Lance’s back. “I don’t think she ever _wanted_ to give you up, Lance.”

“Then why did she?”

“Because of me.”

Shiro and Lance turned at the sound of Keith’s voice, Lance hastily trying to scrub away the evidence of his tears. Keith averted his gaze, looking vaguely guilty, but closed the distance to where they stood, his eyes flickering to Red as Shiro caught an echo of a purr.

“Allura said the red paladin is the right hand of Voltron,” Keith said. “Not just in a physical sense, but in that they’re the second in command. They're the one who’s supposed to support the black paladin as leader.”

Lance frowned. “So?”

“So?” Keith echoed, dropping his hand as shock washed across his face. “Lance, you saw me after Shiro disappeared. I was a mess! I almost got us killed!”

“You got better.”

“Yeah, and that’s down to _you_.” Keith’s eyes darted to Shiro, and he crossed his arms over his chest as if to ward off his friends’ stares. “I’m _not_ a leader, Lance. I rush into things, I ignore my team, I don’t know when to cut my losses. The only reason I survived those first few fights—the only reason _any_ of us survived—is because of you.”

Lance flushed, opening his mouth to protest, but Keith rounded on him.

“No, Lance,” he growled. “You don’t get to shrug this off.”

Shiro stepped back, watching the conversation unfold. He’d seen before how Lance craved validation—at Beta Traz, in training, almost every time the team debriefed. Lance boasted about his achievements, but there was always a silent question behind his words, as though they rang hollow to him until someone else reiterated it. And if there was anyone whose respect Lance wanted more than Shiro’s, it was Keith. Shiro liked to think of himself as even-handed with feedback, but he was relatively free with his praise, and he knew that could make it feel less genuine.

Keith, on the other hand, rarely slowed enough to hand out compliments to anyone—and that made a good word from him exponentially more powerful.

“I needed you at my side, Lance,” Keith said, visibly reeling himself in. “You always knew what to say to keep me going when I just wanted to give up, and you aren’t afraid to get in my face and challenge me when I’m—when I’m--”

“When your Red is showing and you’re about to lead us all off the proverbial cliff?”

Keith’s lips twitched. “Yeah. That.” He glanced at Red, his tense posture loosening. “If I was going to cut it as the black paladin, we needed you in Red—and I think she knew it. I think she’s the reason Blue shut you out. Not because Blue didn’t want you, but because she wanted to do what was best for the team, even if it hurt. Just like you.”

A meaningful look passed between the two of them, and although Lance looked considerably less dour than he had a few moments ago, he still had one hand curled into a loose fist against his chest. The other hand, on Blue’s snout, cradled her like you would a piece of fine china, like Lance expected her to shatter under his fingertips.

“That still doesn’t solve the real problem though, does it?” Lance asked.

Shiro frowned. “What problem?”

“Five lions,” Lance said.

Keith sighed. “And six paladins. Lance--”

“I know you said it would all work itself out, Keith, but that's not an answer. It’s just not! And even if you did need me before, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m bottom of the ranking _now_.”

Shiro frowned. A half a dozen counter-arguments sprang to his lips, but he dismissed them each in turn. It wasn't enough to point out Lance's strengths, when he was already trying do downplay their relevance. But Lance would be up in arms if Shiro tried to point out where the other paladins fell short—and honestly, Shiro himself didn’t want to comfort Lance by putting others down. But it would be equally futile to point out that top six in a competition of the entire universe was pretty damn good _whatever_ the ranking, or that being a paladin was about more than just how good you were at fighting.

“Stop talking about yourself like that,” Keith snapped. “You can’t compare yourself to Allura when you had to figure everything out for yourself and _she_ had you to guide her through it all. And if you _really_ want to compare yourself to me, I promise I’m going to win the saddest excuse for a paladin award.”

Lance snorted. “What, with your flawless swordsmanship and the bond with Red that stretches farther than Allura and Coran thought was even _possible_?”

“No!” Keith cried. “How about the way I got locked out of the castle after _you_ saved Coran’s life? How about the fact that you were concussed and bleeding to death and you still did more damage to Sendak than me? How about the fact that I almost killed Red charging into a battle with Zarkon everyone warned me not to provoke? How about the fact that _your_ sharpshooting saved Slav from Beta Traz while all _I_ managed to do was save one of Lotor’s generals and hand her a bag full of scaultrite that he’s going to use to—to—I don’t know, rip a hole in reality itself!”

“Yeah?” Lance asked. “Well--”

Shiro stepped forward then, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “Okay," he said disarmingly. "I don't think a competition of faults is really getting us closer to an answer here. What Keith means is that we’re all good paladins and we’ve _all_ made mistakes. You can't use your worst moments to decide who 'deserves' to be on this team.” He paused, glancing at Keith. "You... do know that the same applies to you, right?"

"Yeah," Keith said, shrugging. "Whatever. I was just trying to prove a point."

Lance’s shoulders rose and fell in a sigh that seemed to take the fight out of him. “Well then what _are_ we going to do? _Someone_ has to step down.”

Shiro hesitated. Neither of the others was looking at him, but they both stood with their heads angled toward him, as though expecting him to make the decision. As if it was as simple as that. Lance was ready to step down without a fight because he'd gotten it into his head that that was the best thing for the team, and Keith, apparently, considered himself a failure as leader.

“Keith," Shiro said, waiting for him to look up before he went on. "What do _you_ think we should do?”

Keith gave a start. “ _Me?_ ”

“Sure. I haven’t had a chance to see how Allura flies, or what the dynamic was like with the five of you. You've made tough calls before; you got this team through the loss of a friend, the rise of a new enemy, and a few major changes in team structure. You understand this situation better than me. It should be your call.”

Keith seemed taken aback by that, but he swelled at the words, pride visible in his eyes alongside determination. He took a moment to consider before he spoke, and Lance was visibly hanging on his pronouncement.

“I think...” Keith looked up, meeting Shiro’s eyes first, then turning to Lance. “It can only be advantageous to have more people on the team. There might be times we need you sniping a target for us, or when we want Allura to be part of a diplomatic delegation, or when Shiro or I need to coordinate with the Blade of Marmora or interface with Galra systems—to get to prisoners or something. Having six paladins means that Voltron is still on the table when those situations come up—especially with Matt and Ryou here. We could field a full squad on the ground while five of us stay in the air.”

Lance blinked, face lighting up at the possibilities, and Shiro found his own thoughts spiraling off down hypothetical battle plans. He'd honestly considered stepping down himself and fighting alongside Matt in battle, but now new possibilities presented themselves. It _would_ be nice to have more flexibility in their battle plans, where before any secondary target took either Voltron or the Castle of Lions out of play.

“But what about battles in deep space?” Lance asked. “We aren’t always going to need a ground team—or have anywhere to send them. So who pilots Voltron then?”

“The same five we started out with,” Keith said. He was gaining confidence now, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes intent as they stared at something the others couldn't see. “It only makes sense. Allura and Coran are the only ones who can fly the castle or use its weapons. Coran’s been managing in battle without Allura, but he’s not nearly as effective as the two of them together. If we’re going up against Lotor’s fleet or a robeast or whatever, having the castle at full strength is almost as important as having a team of paladins that works well together. With you, me, and Shiro in our lions and Allura back here with Coran, we'll be fighting at our full potential.” Keith’s confidence finally ran out, and he shot an apprehensive look at Shiro, who smiled. "That's--That's what I think, anyway."

“That sounds like a good plan to me,” Shiro said, squeezing his shoulder. Keith's smile brought warm pride flooding into Shiro's chest. “Lance?”

Lance bit down on a smile, dancing in place. “Yeah? I mean, you think?”

Keith rolled his eyes. “You didn't honestly think we were going to ditch you, did you?”

“I guess not. No. I think—as long as it’s okay with Allura, I mean...”

Shiro smiled, returning the burst of contentment Black sent his way. “We’ll run it by her first chance we get, but honestly? She knows how close you and Blue are. I don't think she ever wanted to take that away from you.”

Then, finally, Lance’s smile burst out of him, bright and easy, and he grabbed the other two by the hands to drag them toward the elevator, babbling all the while about all the little ways in which Red and Blue were different. The way they handled, the way they talked to him, even the design of their cockpits and the comfiness of their seats (Blue's, apparently, being far more plush.)

Shiro smiled and let himself be pulled along.

* * *

“So a little birdy told me you have a thing for me.”

A shiver of ice dripped down Shiro’s spine, followed quickly by a bloom of heat as Matt’s hand settled into the small of his back. Shiro turned, keenly aware that his face was flushed, his thoughts bordering on incoherent. He thought, _Ryou,_ and, _I’m going to kill him,_ at the same moment the last rational corner of his brain registered the soft smile on Matt’s face.

“You—uh,” Shiro swallowed, glancing toward the kitchen, where Hunk and Lance were trying to introduce Ryou to every aspect of cooking at once, as though he might have missed out on Shiro’s abysmal skill with food. “You don’t seem angry about that.” Keith and Pidge had taken up seats at the counter, laughing and alternating encouragement and sarcastic quips as things proceeded. Shiro had intended to join them, but he’d hesitated when he noticed that Matt had hung back.

Now he was starting to wonder whether this had been a bad idea.

Matt chuckled, tracing patterns along Shiro’s spine with his fingertips. “Angry? Takashi, the only thing I’m angry about is that now I’m going to have to tell my sister that I needed my crush’s clone to play matchmaker for us.”

“Your—crush?”

Shiro turned, time seeming to slow around him, and found Matt bright red from collar to hairline, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

He turned, amber eyes bright. “Since we started rooming together, practically,” he said. “You were already the hottest guy on campus--and probably the nicest--and then we stayed up till three that first Friday and I found out that French squirrel ninjas made you laugh so hard you cried, and I was shit outta luck. Which sounds a lot less pathetic after Ryou spilled the beans about you.” Suddenly Matt’s smile vanished, his hand on Shiro’s back going still. It pulled away, and Shiro immediately missed its warmth. “I-I mean, assuming he was right. Fuck. I didn’t even think about whether or not that might be something Haggar cooked up, and--”

Shiro kissed him.

It was a short, chaste kiss, and immediately Shiro wanted to melt into the floor. He covered his face with his hands while Matt was still gaping at open air.

“So I guess that’s a no on the fake memories then?” he asked weakly.

Shiro laughed. The air in his lungs seemed to be dancing, which left him giddy and lightheaded, adrenaline pounding in his veins. “An emphatic no. Let’s keep Haggar out of our love life, please.”

Matt’s giggles were high and nervous, more the sound of pent-up energy making its escape than any real humor, but it still made Shiro’s skin catch alight, heat and a peculiar, tingling sensation spreading from the base of his neck across his shoulders and chest, down his arms, down his spine. The heat gathered in the pit of his stomach, the tingling sensation in his scalp, and he didn’t resist when Matt pulled his hands away from his face.

“It was your smile that did me in,” Shiro said, as that same smile stole the air from his lungs and the words from his lips.

Matt blinked, his smile settling in as he closed the distance between them. He reached up, fingers sliding into the too-long hair curling around Shiro’s cheek. “Is that so?”

“Yeah.” Shiro swallowed. "Snuck up on me, and we were halfway through Kerberos prep before I realized I'd fallen for you."

“Then I guess I’ll have to smile more,” he whispered. His fingers tightened on Shiro’s hair, tugging him down toward Matt’s lips. They kissed again, more deeply this time. Shiro lingered in the sensation, wrapping his arms around Matt’s waist and pulling him closer. Matt went up on his toes, pressing into the kiss, his grip on Shiro’s hair edging toward painful, but Shiro wouldn’t ask him to stop. He couldn’t. Not after so long spent craving Matt’s touch.

 _I missed you, Matt,_ Shiro thought, trying to will the words into his fingertips, to tattoo them on Matt’s back. His head was spinning, his chest tight with the need for air, but he couldn’t break away.

“Holy quiz-fuck you guys, get a room.”

Shiro and Matt sprang apart, both whirling toward Pidge, who stood in the doorway from the kitchen, a platter of what looked vaguely like egg rolls balanced in her hands. The others lingered behind her, Ryou smug, Keith wearing a knowing look, the others’ shock slowly giving way to smiles. Pidge was smirking as she, quite pointedly, walked between Shiro and Matt and set down her tray.

Then she turned, laughed once, and launched herself at Shiro.

“About _freaking_ time, though,” she muttered into his chest. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve had to put up with his pining?”

“K-Katie!”

Pidge pulled back and stuck her tongue out at him. “Don’t even pretend you weren’t the worst. Every time Dad tried to tell a story about the Kerberos mission or about his classes at the academy, it was always, _Oh, but did you see when Shiro did this?_ And, _Oh my gosh, he’s so hot!_ ”

“I-I _never_ said--!”

“It’s okay,” Ryou said, reaching over Pidge’s head to set down the plate of cookies he was carrying—not bad looking, which probably meant Ryou hadn’t actually helped. “Every time Shiro went out with friends it was exactly the same.”

It was Shiro’s turn to splutter, dread seeping into his bones as Ryou flashed him a shit-eating grin that promised trouble. “Now hold on just a second,” Shiro said, his voice far too high. “You’ve got all my memories. That’s not _fair_.”

Ryou spread his arms helplessly. “It’s love, Taka, and we're at war. _All’s_ fair.”

Pidge clapped her hands together, and Lance was soon to join them, grinning eagerly. “Wait,” Lance said. “Does this mean you’ve got dirt on Shiro?”

“More than you will ever know.”

Shiro shot a desperate look at Keith, who managed a fair impression of disinterest. He didn’t quite managed to keep from staring, though, and Shiro had a feeling he was going to be hearing a lot of embarrassing stories from his Garrison days in the weeks to come.

Honestly, though? He didn’t mind. The team had survived without him. Keith and Lance had pulled together into what seemed a fairly stable partnership—far more than Shiro had ever expected of them. Shiro had started this fight knowing that he had to be strong for them, to be the adult in the room.

But maybe he didn't need to cling to his unshakeable facade quite so desperately anymore.

By the time all the food was set out and the team—Allura and Coran included—had sat down to eat, Ryou was neck-deep into a story about the time Shiro had tried to program early 2000s memes into the simulators. Iverson had caught him, and Shiro had spouted his prepared lie: that he was sneaking in some extra practice time like the overachiever the faculty all thought he was.

Which had been great—right up until Iverson made him demonstrate the run, and Shiro had had to do some Blue Angels-level aerobatics to complete the course without either crashing or triggering any of his I-can-haz, all-your-base, rick-rolling traps.

Lance was dying of laughter, Keith was on the edge of his seat, eager for more, and Ryou looked more relaxed than Shiro had yet seen him.

“Happy?” Matt asked, laying his hand on Shiro’s thigh.

Shiro covered it with his own, intertwining their fingers. “Perfectly.”

* * *

**One Year Later**

* * *

Ryou winced as the stack of glass canisters, each containing a single fragment of khylosian crystal, came crashing down. One of the containers shattered, the crystal fragment spinning away in a rush of syrupy pink liquid. Several more rolled out of sight beneath the shuttle Coran and Lance had taken to retrieve the crystals, which were the last crucial component of some gizmo Pidge was working on with her brother.

Pidge stopped a wayward canister with her foot, arching an eyebrow at Ryou and the harakka in his hand. Harakka--metal hooks affixed to the end of three long, segmented tethers--were traditional weapons used in the Ori System, and Ryou was beginning to see why they typically took years to master.

Coran’s head popped up over the edge of the shuttle, and Ryou hastily tucked the harakka behind his back. When Coran looked his way, Ryou tilted his head to the side, subtly indicating Lance, who squawked a protest.

“I didn’t touch anything! Don’t listen to him, Coran, he’s a liar.”

Pidge gasped, scrambling over a mound of toppled canisters to clap her hands over Ryou’s ears. “Lance!” she chided. “How _dare._ Ryou doesn't need to hear this kind of slander from you!”

Ryou laughed, ducking aside as Pidge scowled at him. “Sorry. It’s just—your tiny baby hands tickle.”

Pidge’s mouth dropped open, and she swung a nearby canister at his shoulder. Or, she tried to. Coran was faster, plucking the canister out of her hand just before it made contact and setting it back on the pile. “Ah, ah, ah, Number Seven. Careful with that.”

“Shut up, Coran. These are for my project; I can break one if I want to.”

“Yeah,” Lance said, drawing the word out. “And _you_ can go negotiate with the Ori when you run out of crystal shards and need more, ‘cause Coran and I are never going back there.”

“That bad?” Ryou asked, dropping his guard as the conversation caught up to Pidge, who rounded on Coran with a cry of _Seven!_ Ryou tried not to laugh (too hard) at her indignation. She’d been scandalized when Coran amended his height-based nicknames for the humans to accommodate Ryou and Matt’s presence on the castle-ship, and she’d been lobbying hard since her recent growth spurt to convince Coran she’d finally surpassed Keith to claim the Number Six spot. Ryou didn’t have the heart to tell her that the three inches of hair above her scalp didn’t count.

Lance gave the canisters a wide berth and found a clear spot on a workbench at the edge of the hangar on which to perch. “Eh, I’ve dealt with worse. It’s just a pain to remember all the formalities of their trading system. You’ve gotta get through a full ten minute traditional greeting before the bargaining can start, and even then trades with offworlders require two _different_ day-long breaks from negotiations for… second thoughts? I think? I dunno, Coran handled most of the last two days. My brain shut down after the third time I bought us another night of reflection by offending the merchant.”

Ryou winced. “That’s harsh.”

“I mean, the rest of the planet is great. They’ve got awesome beaches. We should go there next time we need a break—but I refuse to buy anything ever again.”

That seemed fair. Ryou himself avoided bartering and diplomacy where he could. Shiro was infinitely better at that sort of thing, and Ryou was usually roped into keeping Keith from starting an intergalactic incident. Though, actually, Ryou was pretty sure Allura told Keith _he_ was the one stopping _Ryou_ from starting an incident.

Either way, they tended to be good at distracting each other.

Ryou’s ticker chimed the hour, and he stared at in disbelief. _That late already?_ He shook his head, then stretched and headed for the door.

“And where are _you_ going?” Coran demanded, ignoring Pidge’s latest argument and crossing his arms in Ryou’s direction.

Ryou waved his ticker. “Almost dinner time. It’s my day to help Hunk.”

“No it isn’t,” Pidge said. “It’s Shiro’s.”

Ryou shrugged. “I took over his shift. Mutual decision on all sides. I don’t think Hunk finds my brother to be that much of a help.”

Lance snorted. “Yeah, not surprised. You know he _still_ burns the cookies every time he tries to bake?”

“Like I said. Mutual decision.” Ryou raised his hands in surrender. “It’s one of the great marvels of the universe. We’d always blamed his bad cooking on genetics, and now he’s got undeniable proof that that’s not the case.” It was only stubbornness that had carried Shiro this far, but his bruised ego had finally had enough, and now he stayed out of the kitchen. “Anyway, I should go.”

There was a moment of silence behind him and then, in perfect unison, Pidge and Lance both cried, “Wait!”

Ryou stopped, turning back toward them. “What?”

“Uh...” Pidge shot a look Lance’s way, her guilty expression screaming _think of an excuse!_

Ryou crossed his arms. “Lance, don’t bother. Pidge, what are you hiding?”

Pidge tucked her arms behind her back, rocking up onto her toes. “N-nothing?”

“Uh-huh.” He turned back toward the door.

Coran was standing in his way. “Not so fast, Number Two. Aren’t you going to help clean up this mess you made?”

Ryou glanced down, cringing at the canisters all around him. He knew this was still some kind of a distraction—getting all three of them in on it wasn't helping with subtlty—but Coran _did_ have a point. With a sigh, Ryou trudged back into the room. “Okay, fine, but can I at least call up to the kitchen and let Hunk know I’ll be late?” He paused, crouching to see the two dozen canisters now hiding beneath the shuttle. “ _Very_ late?”

“I’ll go!” Lance cried, sprinting out the door.

Ryou sat back on his heels, watching Lance go. “Well _that's_ not suspicious at all.” The others pretended not to hear, and Ryou got to work re-stacking the canisters while Coran unloaded the rest of the supplies he’d brought back. Pidge, ostensibly, was helping Ryou, but he was ninety percent sure she was actually knocking _more_ canisters over. She was sneaky enough, though, that he couldn’t catch her in the lie.

Twenty minutes later, the re-stacking was done, and Ryou finally headed up toward the kitchen, Pidge and Coran flanking him like the universe’s weirdest bodyguards.

“Uh… guys?” he said. “You know I know where the kitchen is, right?”

Pidge only smiled and gave him a shove. “Hurry up, White Rabbit. You’re late.”

“Pidge, that reference is older than your _parents_.” Ryou reached behind him, grabbed Pidge, and spun her around, lifting her up and tossing her over his shoulder.

“Hey!” she squawked. “Put me down! Ryou! Don’t laugh, Coran—this isn’t funny!”

Ryou shifted his grip on her, unconcerned that it meant jostling her. “Proof that you’re still smaller than Keith, though.” He grunted as her elbow connected with the back of his head. “More wriggly than him. I'll give you that.”

She stilled for a moment. “Wait. Have you _actually_ tossed him over your shoulder like this?”

“Once or twice.”

Pidge laughed in delight and resigned herself to being carried the rest of the way to the kitchen, which was eerily deserted when Ryou walked in. His steps slowed, and he took a moment to glance around. The lights were dimmed, the stove and ovens off, the counters clear. The dish washer was running, though, which was… odd. Whoever wasn't on prep duty usually pitched in on cleanup after the meal.

Coran nudged him toward the far door, which led to the formal dining room. Suspicion edged its way into Ryou’s mind, and his first few steps were hesitant. As he got closer, however, he found himself picking up speed, his heart pounding like he expected to find an enemy on the other side of the door and not--

“Surprise!”

A burst of confetti from overhead caught Ryou as he entered—though more of it caught Pidge, who squeaked, flipped over, and slid straight out of Ryou’s hold. She danced backward, spreading her arms to encompass the room—the others gathered around a table piled high with food and presents, oddly-shaped balloons roaming the floor, and a banner overhead proclaiming, _Happy 1 st Birthday, Ryou!_

Ryou let out a laugh that contained rather more tears than was normal, and he pressed a shaking hand to his mouth. He didn’t know what he’d expected when, just a few months after Ryou joined the team, Shiro’s birthday rolled around. Ryou had had more than one panic attack in the days leading up to the party, and he’d told Shiro in no uncertain terms he didn’t want to be included in the festivities—they may have been brothers, but they'd done what they could to differentiate themselve from one another, and Ryou hadn't been able to stop thinking of _twin_ as a pretty bow to put on top of the _evil clone_ package. Shiro understood, and after a (slightly awkward) party Ryou had put the entire issue out of his mind.

“What?” he asked. “Why--?”

“Why today?” Shiro guessed. Ryou nodded. “It’s the day you escaped Operation Kuron, as near as we can figure. Which we figure is pretty much when your life began, so...” He shrugged. “Honestly, we just wanted to do something special, and it seemed like a good excuse.”

Ryou looked up, frantically blinking back tears, and his eyes fell again on the banner. “First birthday, though?”

“That one’s on Keith, actually,” Hunk said. “Because, and I quote, ‘Shiro’s only six, and Ryou can’t be _older_ than him.’”

Keith flushed as Shiro scowled at him, but Ryou just laughed. “Don’t worry, Takashi. I'm not a leap year baby, which means I’m going to age faster than you, so you can be the kid brother in a couple decades.”

“Don’t _you_ start,” Shiro grumbled, but let himself be soothed by Matt’s hand on his arm. Ryou made a face at Matt, who laughed, and Shiro eyed them both through narrowed eyes.

“Anyway,” Keith said. “Happy birthday, Ryou.”

Hunk shoved a cake forward, a single candle glowing at the center. “Now make a wish.”

Ryou didn’t even have to think about his wish. _Let me keep this,_ he thought. _Just let me hold onto this family for another year._ Holding the wish close, he leaned forward and blew the candle out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (In case you were wondering [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jg_ryIfz-zY) is the French ninja squirrel video that Matt was talking about. Please watch it and imagine punch-drunk Shiro laughing so hard he cries while Matt slowly implodes from the cute.)
> 
> Thank you all for reading! <3


End file.
